Every Rose Has a Porn - or "Fancy Meeting You Here!" (Closed for Talon)

[Talon]

Rus remained in her bed while Cass showered. Lying on his back, he absently rubbed the patch of soft hair along his belly as he stared blankly up at the ceiling. The lingering warmth of the moment they’d just shared was still settling over him, and the white noise of the shower threatened to lull him back to sleep with its soothing hiss.

He let his eyes drop from the ceiling to drift around the room from object to object lazily. It was still an unfamiliar space, and he hadn’t taken the time to look around before falling into bed with her. With a different woman, he might have been worried he’d failed some sort of test. Like, “Well, yeah, like, I was the one who asked for sex, but, like, you were supposed to turn me down.”. It was part of what had made Cass so pleasant to deal with as a ‘business partner’: if she said something, she meant it.

Not a bad trait to have in a girlfriend, either.

Rus sighed gently. “Girlfriend…” he murmured unconfidently, as if unsure of the proper pronunciation of a word belonging to a foreign language. He didn’t hate how it sounded, though, and so he gave it another try. “Girlfriend… ‘Hey guys, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend’...” Shaking his head, eyes drifting back up to the ceiling, he chuckled at himself. “Fuckin’ dork…”

He knew they weren’t quite there yet, in a place where they would need to use such rigid definitions. ‘She’s my’... she didn’t belong to him, and from his understanding of her, wasn’t the sort of woman who needed(or would want) to be claimed or kept.

Perhaps it was down to the fact that Rus simply wasn’t the type who felt they always needed to be in control. ‘Easy-going’, ‘laid back’, ‘chill’- all phrases that fit him to a T. He’d never been in a fight, a true knock-down drag out fist fight, in all of his life. A few dust-ups on the basketball court, pushing, maybe the occasional punch or elbow thrown(never by him), but that was pretty much the extent of his experience with interpersonal conflict. He was a fairly big guy, six-two, six-three-ish, and broad in the shoulders, though for most of his teenage years, he was teetering on the edge of being gangly, not properly filling out until his early twenties. Maybe part of it was down to his physical size, or the fact he tended to fall into the ‘jock’ peer group in high school, but he always attributed the idea that nobody had fucked with him to the fact that, well, he simply hadn’t given them a reason to. He was an easy guy to get along with.

That easy-going nature had extended over into his relationships, as well- if you could even properly call what little ‘romantic’ experience he had a relationship. Maybe a little too easy-going, from the point of view of his partners. ‘Unambitious’, ‘lacking passion’- cons that would be listed on his review page if he had one. His first girlfriend, the one he’d been with throughout high school, had certainly felt that way.

She was a member of the cheer squad, he one of the Captains of the basketball team… it was almost a thing he had maintained because it was expected of him. He’d made a show of inviting her to Prom- they hadn’t won King and Queen, though they’d been in the running- he took her out for dinner each year on Valentine’s Day, they had lost their virginity together- all the normal All-American shit. She was nice enough, personality-wise, very Christian in her upbringing and values, and beautiful, looks-wise; it’s just… he had never really felt that spark. Ever. Even when they first started ‘dating’.

She was boring. She didn’t share his sense of humor(she thought he was goofy in an embarrassing way), she didn’t like his taste in music, his taste in movies, the fact that the only sort of plan he had in mind for potential post-college careers was to become an EMT. “Why not a doctor?” had been her response. And the fact that he wasn’t sure he wanted to have kids and openly stated as much? That was probably the ultimate deal-breaker for her, as she was the type who wanted to be a broodmother. And she had already chosen the names, boy and girl, by the time she had hit puberty. In a way, Rus admired that. Like, to be that certain of what you wanted, that focused, that driven.

It also scared the shit out of him. Like, ‘wear two condoms and still pull out’ scared the shit out of him.

In the end, their break-up had been mutual, though she had been the one to bring it up. One of those “going away to separate colleges” things, or at least that was the surface-level excuse given at the time. It had been weird to Rus, to be ‘single’ after all the years of being ‘taken’, but in the end, he missed the moniker far more than he ever did the relationship.


When Cass emerged from the bathroom to get dressed, he watched in silence, still lounging atop her bed, hands clasped behind his head, the ghost of a coy grin creasing his lips. He wasn’t exactly leering—there was no hunger in his gaze, as if he were reducing her body to merely a collection of sexual attributes. It was a thing of curiosity, simple observation, as he watched her move through her morning routine. When she finally left the bedroom, he moved to follow, rolling out of bed with only the slightest grunt of protest.

He had tried at first to insist on being the one to cook. Not forcefully, and not in an argumentative way—after all, it was her apartment— with a couple of “Are you sure?” and “I don’t mind, I want to”s given before he finally relented.

And true to his word, he remained in the nude, though he had asked for something like a towel to sit on- despite her blessing, it still felt like disrespect to drag his bare ass all over her furniture- and having been given an old towel she deemed fit for the purpose, he tossed it over one of the beanbags before moving to join her in the kitchen. Well, not in- there wasn’t really room for him in- but he settled for around, leaning against the counter along the outside, mindful enough to stay out of her way as she cooked, content to watch and listen as she recounted her experience with her stalker, absently sipping at a can of sparkling water as he followed along.

Naturally, he found the details disturbing, though not particularly surprising—not beyond the fact that it had happened to her, at least—as sadly, with the evolution of the Internet, it was becoming a more regular occurrence.

Rus had never dealt with anything quite like that himself. The worst of it, for him personally, had been the occasional email or crude comment left under a video. He had entered the industry at a transitional time—when performers weren’t necessarily expected, or even welcome, to market themselves online. Since most of his professional work had been under the big studios, they, along with his agent, had handled that side of things.

Maybe that was part of why his transition out of the industry had been so seamless. For a time, he had been a mainstay in the business, yet when he walked away, there was little baggage to carry out with him. His agent had once told him about a fan club dedicated to him—one of those old message board type things where his fans gathered to discuss his scenes—but neither he nor his representation had any involvement in it. He never had an “official” Facebook group, a Twitter handle, or an Instagram page that he’d had to scrub once he left.

When the tube sites first started popping up, he’d poked his head around a bit- curiosity killed the cat, and all that- looking for what sort of comments were left under videos he’d featured in. It was the usual sort of juvenile, derogatory stuff- most commonly that his dick wasn’t big enough for porn, or, on the opposite side of the spectrum, there was the sort of backhanded compliment that was the speculation as to what surgery or procedure he’d undergone to make it as large as it was- He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, what sort of comments he would have ‘liked’ to see, but what he’d found was enough to put him off the idea of adopting any sort of ‘official’ online presence altogether.

Independent artists like Cassandra didn’t have that luxury, however. Without an industry deal, they had to market themselves, had to engage with fans. It was a necessary evil. A double-edged sword. For every genuinely wholesome encounter, there was sure to be an even greater number of unseemly ones, with the potential for something crossing over into the realm of criminal. It sounded like Cass had experienced the worst-case scenario, and what she had gone through made his experience seem like a walk in the park by comparison.

Rus, not wanting to barge in on what was her moment, offered little commentary as she retold her story- not beyond the occasional “Jesus…” muttered under his breath as she spoke to some of the grittier details of her account. He couldn’t imagine what it had been like to see the journals, to have access to the most deranged of this unhinged individual’s thoughts- but he seemed engaged, his brow furrowed, lips pursed, as he followed along.

He took the plate of food when offered, nodding his thanks with a forced smile that broke through the cloud of gloom that had formed over his visage. “Yeah, I’m sure we’ll get it figured out. If nothing else, I’m sure they’ll air dry to an acceptable level. I mean, it was just water, after all.” His grin deepened as he looked himself up and down as if to draw attention to his state of nudity. “Thanks for, uh… accommodating me in the meantime, though.”

 

[Talon]

“And thanks for sharing…” He groaned as he eased into the fluffier of the two beanbags, balancing his plate carefully as he sank into it. A few small wiggles helped him settle in further, though the positioning left him sprawled awkwardly, thighs splayed apart, his sex on full display, resting between them in a lazy sprawl. He reclined just as cautiously, keeping his plate hovering over his chest.

“Seriously,” he continued. “I mean, it’s kind of ‘buzzword’-y, ‘Thanks for sharing’” his tone was mockingly flamboyant. “But you’ve been through a lot, and it can’t be easy for you to relive all that. I appreciate that you felt comfortable enough to share it with me.”

It seemed like he was being earnest, and he was. They were, on every level beyond physical, essentially former colleagues. They’d joked, and laughed, together, but their topics of conversation had been kept to things mostly surface deep. He had no idea what her favorite type of food was, her favorite movie, her favored genre of music- basic shit. That she’d felt comfortable enough to be vulnerable, to truly open up to him about something so personal- it felt good to occupy that ‘space’ with her.

He cut into his eggs with the edge of his fork, taking a bite. The full weight of his hunger hadn’t hit until he smelled them cooking, and though he was fully engaging in the conversation, not just making small talk, his stomach was threatening to eat a hole through his back.

“Ryan always did seem like good people…” Taking a bite, he paused to chew and swallow. “Mmmm… it’s very good, by the way… thank you…” He commented to her before continuing. “...but yeah, I’m glad you had at least him, insofar as someone in your corner.”

Another pause to swallow another forkful of eggs. “Beyond the physical and psychological damage, though—” he exhaled, shaking his head. “...which I in no way mean to minimalize- but I think what gets me the most is how that fuckin’ asshole ruined “Sister Sunshine” for you. That what he did destroyed it, and all your hard work along with it. It was something special.”

He met her gaze then, grinning sheepishly as he forced down another bite.

“No, seriously. I mean it. You had this vision. This passion. This message. And I was proud to be part of something truly different, for once, you know? Something real. For what little part I played in it, I was grateful for the opportunity to work with you.”

“Not to, like, fanboy out on you and make things awkward or anything…” he looked down at the state of himself. “... well, any more awkward, at least.”

Taking another bite of eggs, he put his fork down atop his plate as he chewed and swallowed, picking up a slice of toast. “Speaking of your ‘vision’... maybe you could sketch me like this…” His eyebrows lifted. “...huh? I mean, kind of an interesting pose. Maybe call the piece “The Man and his Beanbag”... a nice little double entendre in there.” He bit into the corner of his toast, beaming a smile over at her as he chewed with one side of his mouth.

“You know…” He took another bite and swallowed. “Assuming you’re not already sick of me…” His delivery was dry, teasing. “Maybe I could run over to my place real quick, grab a couple bottles of wine—maybe something stronger if we’re feelin’ frisky. A change of clothes, stop by the pharmacy, pick up some condoms. Awkward, yeah, but, you know—‘responsible adults’ and all that.” He shrugged as if it couldn't be helped.

“Could pick up some dinner, too, if you don’t feel like cookin’. Your call, though. I’m smart enough to know when to pick my battles.” He smiled at her cheekily, taking another bite from his toast. “But yeah, I mean, I’d love to just hang out, keep this, uh, y’know, ‘vibe’ going… and, uh, maybe if you’re feeling froggy, later…” he gestured towards the game console with his piece of toast. “... we could play a game…” He raised his eyebrows, taking another bite of his toast, talking around a mouthful. “... assuming you’re not afraid to get your butt-kicked, that is.”

His tone of voice suggested his next move would be to issue the dreaded ‘Triple Dog Dare’ should she refuse.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“I always thought you were above that. Dating, I mean.”

It’d been some years ago, in some off-handed conversation with a high school friend. She’d jokingly mentioned never being asked out and had received that as an answer. And…it made sense. Both at the time, and in her reflections, going back. She hadn’t really given much thought to the air that she put off; so focused was she on survival, let alone achieving academic excellence. All of the things that were, in a sense, distinctly un-high school and yet at the core of it all.

Dating Rus would be…interesting? ‘Dating’ was a strange word; came with strings and complications that inevitably only lead to one place: marriage, kids, housing together and slowly resenting one another as time went on, unable to accept the fact that people change and that adding kids to it just because that’s what people do wasn’t always the best solution. So, in simple terms, Cassandra had never seen herself as a girlfriend, or a wife candidate, or anything of the sort. Companionship she wanted - she was human, after all - but on her terms. Someone that would allow her to remain independent, who wouldn’t be threatened by her distance and pursuit of greatness in other avenues. If ‘greatness’ was even the word to be used. She wanted to do her things on her terms, explore the world around her on her own terms as well. All of it had been fiercely fought for; the weird kid above all weird kids.

No dating in high school for her, then - occasional sexual experimenting with a guy that said he liked her - a friend of a friend, went no further than hand and mouth stuff. He’d been unnerved at how she wanted to look at him aroused. Not necessarily to coax to a fumbling end, but to see the magnification of the differences between their bodies. The semi-straight tangle of rust colored pubic hair, the way that his penis stuck straight out, instead of up. The curiosity went both ways, apparently - "Huh. Every part of you is dark," he'd said in response to her naked body. Apparently he'd thought that her nipples would be pink, rather than the dark brown that they were. It was one of those random things that, on occasion, crossed her mind when she looked at herself nude and would have to suppress a giggle.

That’d ended when it turned out he was still hung up on her ex. She acted as she thought she was supposed to; ‘devastated’, though not actually really, and in the end, it was more mourning the escape from her usual life than the actual person. "But I love you," she'd tearfully choked out, but the words were from someone else's script; one she didn't have time to study and didn't know how to appropriately react. Love? That was absolutely ridiculous. She hadn't loved him; she was barely interested in the guy outside of his interest in her and new experiences. But that was how she was supposed to react to the end of a 'relationship,' so, she played along accordingly. It'd taken years to mend the relationship with the friend that had initially brought them together, a punk girl who she shared art classes with. God, the melodramatics - those hoops she jumped through just because she thought that's what she was supposed to do. Maybe if she'd been herself, truly, it would've been different.

Virginity was lost in college - to someone she felt cornered into dating, maybe interested from a distance. The type of guy that was interesting from a distance, really - the more she got to know him, the more she realized he was drowning in his own self-esteem issues, spat back into the world as him being as contrary and belligerent as possible. If her politics were left, his were right - if she liked a director, the director was a cliche, his work amateurish, but if he liked someone, then that person was the greatest film auteur to ever live.

And so on.

So it wasn’t that much of a loss when she ended up exchanging smoky-mouthed tongue kisses with a hapless pale red-headed underclassman, who’d said, in that unshakeable, clear-eyed serious way that first time drunks had, that he’d saved her life when they were outside on the dorm stairs. She’d been sober, but mis-stepped all the same (not a lot of space to move, and there were 5 of them crammed onto the rickety top of the stairs), ‘saved’ by his grabbing the bottom of her sweatshirt and tugging her back so hard that the fabric nearly gave in protest. Even then, their fooling around had come later, after she’d laughingly thanked him and it wasn’t until weeks later that a mutual friend told her that ‘girl; he is so in love with you he even stopped smoking’, and Cassandra laughed until she cried - shocked into silence when she realized her friend wasn’t joking. Even as she said ‘what’s there to fall in love with?’, the idea frightened her.

But that was decades ago, so…

There had been that "one that got away," though, in retrospect, that might've been wishful thinking. Another underclassman, someone who shared her major and apparently her ability to poke holes in any argument. She liked that. Liked that he actually cared about class and the material and seemed to be interested in learning. But, he was an underclassman, she was a senior at that point, and it felt odd to go after, or even be interested, in someone that was 'considerably' younger. Now, the age gap would be negligible, but at the time, it seemed unthinkable. Turned out, he'd ultimately been unimpressed with the major, and decided that he was going to transfer. On the day he'd received his paperwork, she'd run into him, and he'd picked her up and swung her around like they were in a musical and she was wide-eyed stunned, and even more when he hugged her and somehow when she opened her mouth and mentioned that he'd slept with another underclassman (a girl that seemed to glower at her whenever she walked through the quad, the cafeteria, etc.), and how he shouldn't have done that, not when she would've been willing if he'd asked, and he simply set her down and looked at her and said, "I respect you too much for that," and it felt like a compliment but the kind that also seemed a missed opportunity - if she thought about it too much, maybe it was also a subtle way of turning her down (what a gentleman), and he'd then given her his email address to keep in touch and she never had. Was that was what 'interest' was? Damned if she knew, even at this advanced age. So it became easier to either be the first to approach (boring), to speak frankly (no misunderstandings), and, well, move when the spirit moved her. Which was rare.

As things were now, she wanted to know more about Rus. Definitely wanted more sex with him. Would appreciate if maybe he kept the sex to just her; she had no interest in competing (imaginarily or otherwise) with others, nor did she have interest in experiencing sex with others. In a sense, she’d had the best - and he’d proven himself to be just that indeed, even with the passing of time - and, well, why would she want to deviate from that? In theory, it could only get better, as she learned more about him. He’d prove himself to be human, and that in and out of itself would be where the challenges would lie. Not that she deluded herself into thinking otherwise, but, realistically, crushes were formed on passing associations; not actual relationships of any depth.

For the most part, anyway.

He was still nice - he seemed to have something going on. Something a lot deeper than job woes. And of course she wanted to know more, but now wasn’t the time to pry. He’d given her a glimpse of what was in his mind - and of course, the normal thing was to respond in turn with possibly her most recent, biggest, trauma. A lot over breakfast, but -

“Eh, you know, I figured you might’ve been curious as to why I upped and vanished,” said nonchalantly as she took a sip from her cup of tea. The tea was an absolute perfect shade of clear green, and it was hard not to smile in response to how it tasted. Learning how to brew the perfect cup was an ongoing quest - and though she was far from proficient, sometimes she had the gift for just one stellar cup.

She’d taken her seat in the chair opposite him; for all appearances, just as plush, but missing that particular ‘oomph’ that made the one he was in nothing short of perfection. Settling her plate on her knees with clear practice, she absent-mindedly clinked the side of her tea cup to the side of his can of sparkling water, a ‘cheers’ without words. Her teacup was actually that - a startlingly fragile, dainty thing of shell thin white porcelain with a scrolling, looping illustration of old time-y fat roses and green leaves. The green of her tea was reflected back, almost unnaturally brilliant, against the well-taken care of sides.

“I mean, if you even wondered. And I’m not saying that as a dig; we were coworkers. I wouldn’t expect you to keep track of everyone that you’ve met, you know? But, yeah. That was it - I mean, I sort of picked up and left overnight. With good reason, but, you know, once the trial was over, I couldn’t get away fast enough. I guess I could’ve stayed, but the cops suggested a legal name change and all of that, and I mean, I get it, but my name? I’d lost damn near everything else; I was going to hang onto my name.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

His airy-ness in response could’ve been aggravating - someone who didn’t take it seriously. She didn’t take it that way; it was a lot to drop on someone, let alone someone that she’d just recently reconnected with. And his mention of her work? Might be considered flattery - she paused in eating to watch his face as he spoke, calmly measuring each word. His earnestness was endearing - and as he finished, she allowed herself one soft laugh.

“Yeah, well, I mean…it was what it was. I kept some of the more touching letters, you know. Sometimes I skim the ‘net, seeing if anyone remembers, and there’s a few that do. The only good thing about porn is that it moves fast enough and people have short memories. I’ve been replaced a thousand times over by people who were way more…in tune with what sold than what I ever was. While ‘Sister Sunshine’, as a concept, as an art piece, is dead, the lessons I learned and the people I’ve met are not. She’s still here,” she playfully pressed her hand to her chest, “But like anything, there’s a time to move on. Even if the stalker didn’t happen, it wasn’t sustainable and I knew it. I was coming to the end - he just…sped things up.”

Stretching her legs out in front of her, she pointed and flexed her feet, watching the way the muscles moved and popped, ripples beneath the brown skin.

He wanted to stay longer; that was…good, right?

Maybe they should leave; resist the temptation to jump back into bed and keep playing around. Give whatever this could be a chance to grow?

“You know…” she trailed off, that sentence possibly ending in either a denial or a confirmation; her, unconscious of the tension it could’ve produced. “I’m actually not much of a wine person,” a small, sheepish grin, “I never developed a taste for it. But if you’re proposing drinking and hanging out, that’s not a terrible idea. I do need to actually see what I have going on today, though.”

Not a dismissal, but an intrusion from the adult world. Jobs, responsibilities. The Plan B being a random, not insubstantial unaccounted for cost that some overtime might help clear up. Or a side-gig. That was the other thing, too - if this was going to be a common thing, then she would probably have to budget for it. Not a terrible thing, but a consideration.

How does this actually work?

There were things she wouldn’t mind doing - being a homebody (not only out of financial necessity, but personality, even moreso after the stalker), she was the quintessential “Netflix and Chill” - or Music and Books. But…

“You know, Rus, what’s your full name? And what do you like to do?” It was said with a bit of a laugh, but - “Because it just occurred to me that I don’t think we’ve ever been properly introduced outside of our first names. So - I’m Cassandra Henry. Pretty much everyone calls me ‘Cass,’ clearly. I like to read, visit museums, libraries - the arts in general. Like, I don’t mind catching everything from the orchestra to the theater troupe. Ballet’s a bit much for me, though - it’s beautiful in pieces, but when it’s all put together, I sort of lose the plot. And that’s it, to at least start with. And I also say all of this to say that, well, I mean, I don’t mind farting around at home for hours on end, but I wouldn’t want to assume the same for you.”

Her plate empty, she set it down carefully on the floor beside her, taking a demure sip from her tea before she set the cup down on top of the plate. The cup, still half-full, caught the light filtering through the blinds. “I guess I’m not good at this - I don’t mind you hanging out. Really. We could get to know each other better - and that’s what I’d like. To get to know you better. But I also know we’ve got bills, and jobs, and, you know, the world…and I don’t want to keep you from anything.” Try to do our best to catch the threads of the night that got away from us, weave it back into the regular fabric of our lives. “Usually the weekends I’ve got class prep, sometimes I pick up an extra gig here or there. When I checked my phone earlier, I didn’t have anything scheduled, but I’m sure there are errands that I need to run or whatever. You ever just go to an art store to just look at the stuff you want? Don’t buy it or anything - that would take money - but like, just to go in and smell and enjoy the ambiance of it all? Well, maybe not art stores, but like, a move theater, or wherever you like to go? Parks are good, too. Just…to not be where you usually are for a few minutes, hours, whatever. Give yourself a break from yourself.”

 

[Talon]

Rus nodded emphatically as if he knew exactly of what she was speaking.

“Music stores,” he added after swallowing his last mouthful of eggs. “My, uh, ‘happy place’ spots are music stores. Every now and then, I’ll hit up a pawn shop or two…” His nose wrinkled in distaste. “…Not my favorite, though. Even if you do find something legit, it’s sorta tainted by this, like, air of desperation, or whatever, y’know? Like, you just know the person who pawned it was in a bad spot, or worse—some ungrateful fuckin’ kid flipped it after their parent died. Like, they didn’t even care enough to find it a proper home, just took the quick cash.”

Having cleaned his plate, he scrubbed at his mouth with his hand a few times before following Cassandra’s lead, placing it down beside him. His fork clanked against the plate as he set it on top.

“Browsing for guitars, mostly—just in terms of what I know how to play.” He straightened up, brushing his hands together. “Found a ‘78 Gibson Explorer that way, in some little ma and pop shop- cost me an arm, a leg, and my left nut, but it’s pretty choice, so worth it.”

He laughed, shaking his head as he met her gaze, realizing the specifics of guitar brands and models were probably going over her head. “…I’ll show it to you if you ever come over. It’s nothing special or anything- as in it wasn’t owned or played by anyone famous. It’s just old. Made back when they did it more by hand than machine.” A scoff signaled his disapproval as he continued. “There’s just something about old guitars, man. I always say they’re like cars; You could have two of the same make and model, built the same day in the same factory, sold by the same dealership, and one will go for a hundred thousand miles without a hiccup, while the other craps out after a hundred and turns out to be a total fuckin’ lemon. Just one of those things, y’know?”

He leaned back a little, getting more comfortable. “And just like cars, sometimes guitars have these little quirks… like, this one came from the shop with a neck shape that’s just a little different, or maybe the humbucker coils were wound too tight or too loose, or it was wired up backwards. Minor ‘imperfections’ that give each guitar a unique ‘personality.’ And if you bought it new like that, you’d probably be pissed, right? Like, ‘This isn’t what was advertised on the box.’ But over time, those ‘quirks’ become like eccentricities, not defects. Like, because of those ‘defects’, maybe the tone is a little brighter, or it plays better, just fits your hand perfectly…”

He was animated as he spoke, his hands moving demonstratively in front of him, mimicking the hand motions of playing guitar.

He laughed again, throwing his hands up as he sank deeper into the beanbag, letting his head loll back. “Real guitar nerd shit, I know. Probably not at all that interesting…” His fingers scratched absentmindedly at the tops of his thighs. His head lifted as he shot her a wink. “…but that’s my ‘happy place.’ Playing guitar- or listening to other people play guitar- and fuckin’ nerdin’ out over it. I’m sure if we hang out enough, you’ll be subjected to all sorts of rants about how this or that guitar part speaks to me.”

“I’ll try not to be too insufferable, but, y’know, on some level, it’s kinda involuntary. So if I’m ever just borin’ you to fuckin’ tears, feel free to elbow me in the ribs or somethin’…”

“Oh! And, uh…” He rolled onto his left side, stretching out a hand between them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cassandra Henry. I’m Rustin Daniels.”

Smirking playfully, he pulled back, settling back into his beanbag. “Pretty sure I’d caught the Cassandra part before, but I don’t recall ever hearin’ Henry.” His eyebrows raised, lips pursing as he nodded approvingly. “It fits. ‘Cassandra Henry.’ Sounds like the name of an old jazz singer or somethin’. I dig it.”

He settled further back into his seat with an exaggerated wiggling of his butt. “Don’t get me started on ‘Rustin,’ though, in case you were about to ask. I don’t have the slightest fuckin’ clue where it came from, and I don’t think my parents do, either. At least not one they shared. Probably one of those ‘saw it in a baby book’ situations…”

He chuckled. “Not that I’m complainin’ or anything. It’s unique, y’know? I for sure was never one of those kids who had to add the last name initial after the first. Heh, not like my poor sister…”

It was like his record skipped- his whole vibe changed. He had been relaxed and open, just riffing, and it was likely the most ‘passionatly engaged’ Cassandra had ever seen him be, aside from during the heated moments of their intimate encounters. At the mention of his sister, however, it was like the positive energy was sucked out of the air around them in an instant.

Are you really not going to tell her? Ever?

He would. Someday, he would. Not today, though. Not on a day when he wasn’t sure he could tell the whole of it without ending up in tears. Not sobbing, not like a baby—those particular species of cries had long gone extinct. But a few tears rolling down the cheek? He could hardly even mention her name in passing without stumbling over it; did he really think he could get through the whole thing without breaking down?

No. He wanted to tell her, particularly if they were ever going to be anything more than “fuck-buddies”. This was the type of thing a partner- even a casual one- should know. It wasn’t shameful, not like his other secret. He hadn’t done anything wrong, and neither had his sister, for that matter. And it wasn’t that he distrusted Cassandra or that he worried in the case of this one particular situation that her well of empathy would dry up. It was more that he didn’t trust himself, that he worried he couldn’t keep his composure. Not only as a man but just as an adult. No one wanted to see a grown-ass adult- a naked, fully grown adult, to boot- break down and cry like a little baby.

She told you about the stalker, right?

Yeah, but then it would just seem like a ‘who’s more fucked up’ dick-measuring contest. “Oh, you had some fuckin’ psycho from the internet stalking you? Yeah, well, my sister almost died!”

Fuck that.

Stay strong, Rus. Hold it together. You’ll tell her eventually.

Just not today.

His eyes darted before settling on her, like he was searching for something- not in the room, but inside himself. His head had fallen forward, and now he peeked out at her from beneath the shelter of his brows.

“...who, um… y’know, her name was…” He blinked hard, swallowing forcefully. “...is, uh. Her name is Jessica, y’know? So, like…” It was clear that the momentum of whatever he had been about to say had been derailed, and he was struggling mightily to get it back on track, to just get the words out, any words, to make the moment he had made awkward pass.

“... yeah, y’know. Jessica is a super common name, so she was always ‘Jessica D.’ in school.” He scoffed, a warm smile curling at the corners of his mouth even as his eyes had grown wet. “I used to tease her all the time about it, say it stood for ‘Jessica Deez Nuts’...” He cleared his throat, shaking his head gently. “Don’t feel too sorry for her, though. She’d always get me back in some kind of 'big sister' way. Y’know, like pin me down and give me a wedgie or fart on me or somethin’. She was always fuckin’ freakishly strong for someone half my size, y’know?”

He sucked in a deep breath, like he was trying to center himself, to regain his conversational balance, before he continued. “So, anyways. To answer your other question; No, Cassandra Henry. I really don’t have anything better to do today than spend it lying around with you, talking about how boring we both apparently have become in our old age.”

“With that in mind,” He smiled at her, his ‘cool’ seemingly fully recovered for the moment, eyes only still the slightest bit wet. “... anything else you’d like to know?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“ ‘Music stores’?” Curious - I hadn’t thought of him as a musician.

Would explain his skill with his hands. He-yoooo.

Crumpling her smile like balling paper, she fought back the stupid laugh that threatened to escape. She’d asked, and he was talking, and by Jove, she was going to listen to him. Not that she could relate personally; her talents didn’t extend to producing / playing music. Still, it left her with the lingering thought of, He really seems to light up when he talks about this. I hope he still plays.

Taking his hand, she gave it a firm shake, grinning. “Likewise, Rustin Daniels.” The first name she rolled around in her mouth. Before she could say anything, he did it for her -

“Don’t get me started on ‘Rustin,’ though, in case you were about to ask.”

“Fair,” she held up her hands, “Though I think ‘Rus’ does you a disservice. I’m going to be nice and ask, can I please call you ‘Rusty’? I mean, it’s such a 1950s throwback nickname, it’s gonna slip at some point and I just want you to know ahead of time it’s not out of malice. Not that you look like a ‘Rusty’, though. That screams ‘red-headed freckle faced kid that might also be called Opie.’ Ach. Gross. Forget I said anything. ‘Rus’ it is,” the imagined deal sealed with a stoic head-nod from her.

Then he mentioned a sister - and the whole vibe changed. It wasn’t a chill; more like an intense ripple of sorrow. Raw wound there; spoke of loss, even though he struggled between past and present tense. Recent, then. Not something she wanted to poke at, but maybe ease…

“A big sister, huh?” Her smile turned wistful. “I actually always wanted an older brother. But it was just me. My parents passed a while ago.” Easier for her to say now than it was years ago - they’d passed at least five years before she started ‘Sister Sunshine’; she couldn’t have imagined doing any of that while they were still alive. Not so much as the ‘shame’, but the feeling that it wasn’t proper, that such explorations should be kept private, and that they’d…she wasn’t sure, but maybe this was the right way of saying it, that they’d done a better job of raising her than to produce a child that would…show off so intimately? It was a strange ground, that, and one she still didn’t like dealing with.

My parents are dead - and even before they died, they lived their own lives. I should be allowed to do the same.

But how easy was it to just think it? The thing about the dead was that they never were truly gone; their old ways, real and imagined, still wrapped round her, spiderwebs of tradition and thought. What made it so malicious was that it was never from a place of ill-will, but from a place of wanting to help, to pass on life lessons that had guided them through a tough world. It was their desire to see her succeed that held her back.

What to say next? This wasn’t a trauma Olympics. And though she wanted to ask about this Jessica, she felt in her gut that now wasn’t the best time.

So…Rather than charge in, all sensitivities be damned, she decided to show that she had indeed matured a bit, and rolled forward with it. Shuffling out of her chair, she retrieved her empty plate and his own, kneeling over him long enough to place a soft, quiet kiss to his forehead. Then, acting on something else entirely, she set the empty plates down to the side of him, far out of reach, before settling down on top of him, easily straddling him. The way her body molded to his, still, was still absolutely a marvel to her. Despite being in the prime seduction position, she simply wrapped her arms around his neck, looking deep into his eyes.

“Why, Mr. Daniels, I want to know everything about you.” Said simply enough, but with enough fire to know well and full that she wasn’t kidding. “Your birthday, your likes and dislikes. Darkest secrets. You know, normal things.” Lightness, then, “If I could swallow you whole, I would.” Maybe darker than she intended - it was always hard for her to indicate her level of interest without sounding absolutely batshit. And, well, maybe that would have to be something that he’d have to get used to. ‘Obsession’ wasn’t so much her thing; not how she would describe it, anyway. A strong interest, yes - a desire to want to know more because she liked him and he intrigued her and she wanted him to find her a safe place, but more than that, she wanted knowledge, the knowledge that she knew him better than anyone else and because of that he would be freer with her than anyone else. The usual game - captivity and freedom, chasing after the idea of that perfect friendship, not relationship, but actual friendship, the one soul in two bodies.

Maybe she was putting too much on him. She probably was; she could feel the emergency lights flickering in the corner of her mind. Slow down; you’re assuming too much of him. You’ve spent a lot of time and no time at all thinking about him, about that connection. It’s there, but it’s tiny. Don’t blow it out by trying to overfeed it.

Another kiss to his forehead, as if trying to erase the sudden shift in tone. Enough to cause any bystander whiplash - from being open to fighting back something deep and scarred to what could be easily be called -by the uninformed, of course- obsession, and not a fun, cute, new crush kind, but the darkness in desire kind, the worshipping a dark goddess in the slim hours of the night kind -, and she was standing up again, retrieving the plates to deposit them into the sink. She’d wash them later; it wouldn’t make sense to run the dishwasher for such a small load.

“So,” the word popped out, “With that in mind, let’s actually do some housekeeping. Cause as much as I don’t mind, I’m pretty sure you can’t walk around like that,” a small flick of her dish towel towards him. “Why don’t we do this: let’s get you showered, and while you do that, I’ll go take care of some laundry. Come back, get you dressed, then we figure it out from there?”

 

[Talon]

“If I could swallow you whole, I would.”

Again, with that phrase. “... swallow you whole…”. And just as with the first time, hearing those words leave her lips did things to him.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, for one. Other things challenged gravity, too– free from the restriction of clothing, his sex(Prince Valium, as she had dubbed ‘him’) pulsed to life as it filled with blood, rising to press eagerly against her underside where she sat perched atop him.

If she noticed his heightened state of arousal, she didn’t let on. Rus’s hands rested gently on the outward swell to either side of her hips, fingertips playfully tracing the ridges along the crinkled fabric around the elastic waist of her sweatpants. He made no move to deepen the ‘cuddle’, though, to become intimate. Instead, he sat staring up at her, head tilted slightly back. The smile tugging down the right corner of his mouth slowly faded as his eyes searched her own, darting back and forth in sharp little movements as he drank in the full depth of their color. Dark, richly warm, intense- it was like he forgot to breathe for a moment...

He felt vulnerable. Exposed. Small enough that she really could pop him in her mouth and swallow him up. Naked in the truest sense, as if before her gaze, all of his layers were being peeled away. As if he could not hope to hide any part of himself from her, even if he tried. And still, it didn’t make him want to shrink away. It wasn’t frightening. It was freeing.

And somehow, at the same time, it felt like locking eyes with a jungle cat peering from the trees—its form hidden, but those eyes, that hungry glare—he was caught, and dared not look away.

Rus was sure he had never been more attracted to someone in his entire life. And on a level he’d rarely experienced. It was more than physical—though, God, yes, it was that too. But there was something deeper. Not entirely foreign, but unfamiliar enough to feel like a stranger at his door. One he wanted to let in.

How could he tell her he wanted exactly what she’d offered? That, although painfully vanilla in his desires—well, beyond that one thing—he wanted to let her dominate him. Not in the traditional Dom and their Submissive way. It wasn’t about roles. It was about surrendering control. Giving himself over. Letting her take the reins. Being subject to her whim. Letting her do to him whatever she dreamed up in the darkest corners of her fantasies. To please her—and in that act, find his own pleasure.

His cheeks flushed as she placed a second kiss on his forehead. His breath returned with a huff, and he inhaled deeply through his nose.

His eyes lingered on her as she gathered the dishes, following the subtle sway of her hips as she moved toward the kitchen. Even dressed down in a tank top and sweats, she looked like a million bucks.

When she turned to set the dishes on the counter, his gaze fell away, and noting the state of himself, he grimaced as his eyes flickered quickly back to her to see if she had also taken notice before reaching down to tuck himself down between his thighs with his palm. Leaving his hand there like a makeshift fig leaf, he sank deeper into the beanbag, letting his head loll back.

His mind was racing. Somewhere at the periphery, his addiction nagged at him—he hadn’t broken his morning nicotine fast. But louder than that was her, and everything the past twelve hours had brought to light. He had gone from “single but not really looking” to… what?

Attached?

No. Enthralled was more like it.

He scoffed. Perhaps it was telling of how lonely he had been over the past few years that the thought didn’t cause him alarm. He’d practically been forced into single-dom as a function of his chosen ‘career’ over the past decade or so. The thought of a new relationship was not so much scary as it was unrealistic– between caring for his sister and niece and running the shop, what time did he have to form something real?

But this? With Cassandra?

It was perfect. Almost too perfect.

The physical connection was already there, and deeper than that, something more was taking root. He knew he could trust her, and she him. She wasn’t a stranger, wasn’t a rando off the street who needed to be vetted before he could trust she wasn’t a psycho.

Perfect.

She was speaking again, and his head lifted and turned towards her as he listened.

“... Come back, get you dressed, then we figure it out from there?”

Rus cleared his throat, nodding, shooting her a playful wink as she flicked the towel in his direction. “Sounds like a plan…” he groaned as he shifted his weight forward in the chair, struggling to extricate himself from it gracefully. “... but, y’know…” He rose, lifting his arms into a stretch over his head, hands gripped together at the wrists. “... I could get used to this whole ‘walkin’ around bare ass’ thing…”

Letting his arms drop, he sauntered towards the kitchen, a smile once more at his lips as his left eyebrow waggled up and down suggestively as he drew nearer. He slid in behind her, his arms wrapping around her waist to pull her back against him, his head leaning down, cheek pressing against the side of hers.

“Wonder if they still have those hippie commune things where you can frolic around naked all day?” A laugh caught in his throat. “Hmmm… you could spend every day painting, and I could be your muse, just lying around, workin’ on my tan…” He pressed a kiss against the softness of her skin there. “Hmmm?… love the smell of your shampoo, by the way…” His fingers worked against the fabric of her shirt at her belly, dragging back and forth. “... and thank you again for breakfast, beautiful– it was delicious.”

“Y’know, Cas… a conversation for later down the road, maybe. But, uh…” He swallowed hard, fingertips still idly playing across her stomach. “... whatever you decide, y’know, with the whole ‘birth control’ thing. I have the good sense to imagine you won’t let me just pay for it outright…” He scoffed. “... but, uh, considering I’m half of the equation, I’d like to at least chip in that much. And I’m also not against a vasectomy if it comes to that, just for the record.” He laughed beneath his breath. “Sorry. Not that it’s the most important thing in the world, but y’know, just putting it out there, in case we were going to… y’know… later. Not that I’m expecting it or anything…” He laughed again, uncomfortably. “... I’m going to go take that shower now, before I put my foot any further in my mouth. At least it should be clean, first, eh?”

Squeezing her into him in a semi-hug before pulling away, he turned to walk towards the bedroom, reaching out with a daring hand to ‘goose’ her on the backside as he scampered out of range of her dish towel with a devious laugh.



Emerging from the shower refreshed, Rus wrapped the towel he had dried off with around his waist and tucked it in so he could move about in it. It felt weird to be walking around naked afterwards, like, more so than when he had remained naked after waking. It felt like he would be making some kind of weird statement if he had.

Cassandra was gone, presumably still out with his clothes. He felt that it was a strong show of trust that she had left him here alone, and so he made sure to honor that trust, successfully resisting the slight urge he felt to poke around through her stuff. Not to be nosy, necessarily, but more like he couldn’t help but be curious about the woman beneath the image of her he’d built up of her in his head.

Assuming it was safe to peruse and admire her wall of art, he lingered there, eyes moving from piece to piece as his mind worked.

Not that he had ‘put her up on a pedestal’, so much, but more like the bulk of their prior interactions had been with the ‘professional’ side of her. Not that she was stiff and business-like, but more like he had known the persona of Sister Sunshine more than he had the artist Cassandra Henry who portrayed her. It was much the same for her, he reckoned, with “Dan Steele”. Would she find Rustin Daniels as compelling a figure? When all his proverbial warts were revealed?

Oddly enough, he felt like she would. Not out of a sense of inflated ego- like he was so great, what woman wouldn’t want him?- but more like, he just… had a good vibe from this. From her. He’d heard people say it before; “When I saw her, I just knew…”. The kind of statement that had always sounded like bullshit to him, particularly because he’d never felt anything of the sort. But something about this time, this woman, was different.

Rus smirked as he stood before the piece he had dubbed “50 Shades of Blue” the night before. “I still don’t know what the fuck that is supposed to be…”

Laughing, he turned away, moving back over towards the kitchen.

I’ll keep myself busy with the dishes. She’ll probably be pissed, but honestly, she cooked, I’ll clean. It’s fair. Sets a nice precedent.

Flicking on the kitchen faucet, he rummaged through the dirty dishes they had made that morning, transferring the plates to the sink as he prepared to wash them by hand.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She hadn’t missed the way he sprung to life, nestled comfortably between the cleft of her rear. Funny, how even here, clothed and unclothed, their bodies fit just so. Puzzle pieces made of starstuff, etched together with veins and blood and breath. She wouldn’t respond by such a common place thing as a grind or salacious comment. With her forehead still to his, she reached behind her, causal as ever, and gently began to stroke him.

It was little more than fingers exploring silken flesh, thumbing the firm ridge of his head. In its own way, it also wasn’t meant to entice. A blind exploration, then, her hand caressing him, wanting to burn the impression of him into her palm. He was as warm and as soft as she remembered; a delight for all of her senses. With him, she’d understood the true meaning of ‘cock worship’ - nothing so pedestrian as a power fantasy from an inadequate man, but true pleasure in experiencing this part of him, non-sexual as well as sexual. Far be it from her to distill an entire person into a single body part, but she hadn’t lied when she said he had the most beautiful cock she’d ever seen.

And for the time being, she’d ignore how her mouth watered.

Easy to do when he was looking at her with such intensity. It was powerful - and completely unnerving in the sense that she was being looked at with an eye she wasn’t used to. She’d gotten plenty of looks in her time: dismissive, the quick linger, the degenerate, the hateful. This was something different; almost inhuman in how it burned, and she felt, at the core of her being, that she wasn’t worthy of whatever it was that powered it. No empty flattery of herself there; it was an innate understanding of the weight of whatever it was between the two of them, that stone she’d cradled and nursed and warmed over the years and now was terrified to find that rather it being an inanimate object, it was an egg covered with hairline fractures, the stirring of some tiny creature unavoidable.

Distraction time.

It was one thing to have the theory of how she felt, faced with such potential and beauty and all of the mystic possibilities. It was quite another to see it start to bubble to life. In theory, all of those fuzzy thoughts didn’t have a solid end. They were trails of smoke disappearing into a starlit sky, constantly rising from the earth to dissolve into further thoughts. It was the possibility, that she had to admit, that was intriguing. And now faced with something a bit more solid -

You’re doing it again. You’ve spent this time building him up and you’re seeing something of that reflected back and it’s freaking you out and you’re going to try and withdraw -

His voice brought her back from the momentary spiral - and as if falling into old habits, she laughed and rolled her eyes. A bit of insincerity there; hearing and not hearing, responding according to an old script.

“You mean you don’t typically walk around naked?” Little more than a hushed suggestion between the two of them, his closeness to her allowing her to drop her voice. A variation of pitch - dipping into something deeper, throatier. “You should. It’s pretty great.” Causal as she shifted easily in his arms, tilting her head back for further access to the lines of her neck, the plane of her cheek. Her back was to his chest, savoring the warmth of him through the cotton. Slipping in his arms again, wriggling to an unseen song, she turned to face him again, placing her hands on either side of his face. Her eyes, finding his, shone with good humor; almost enough to mask the inner turmoil. “You’ll have to remind me to tell you about Camp Blue Sky - it was just that; a hippie commune. There was a nudist colony that was a part of it as well. It actually was a lot of fun up until recently. Innocent fun,” the stress on innocent before he could work his way to snark. “Like a bunch of kids playing in the woods all day without clothes. Some real Garden of Eden stuff. You’d think that after a while people would get weird and horny, but the vetting process ruled out a lot of that. But you know how it is; word gets out, management changes. So on.” A bit of sadness there, mourning a lost friend that would never return. “Anyway.”



What an awkward segue-way - the mild teasing, flirtatious as it naturally came to them suddenly giving way to the very real topic of birth control. She blinked, startled, then, an actual laugh there. “You’re very considerate. And I appreciate it.”

It was tempting to leave the conversation there; take a moment to bat down the flames of irritation that rapidly sprung up.

He’s not trying to pin you down.

A weaker laugh. “Yeah…later. Let’s…maybe put one foot in front of the other, yeah?”










But let’s talk about it. What got you so mad?

She stared at her distorted reflection in the drum of the dryer in front of her.

You’re the one that suggested something more serious. You can’t get pissed because he’s trying to be responsible.

I don’t like that he even considered a vasectomy.

Why don’t you like it?

Because that is a lot. If he’d had one already because he never thought of having kids, that’s one thing. But for it to come up, like that? That's serious. And grounds for resentment if things change. I'm the one that doesn't want kids beyond a shadow of a doubt; if anyone should have anything that permanent done, it should be me. Probably wouldn't be a bad idea, eventually...

She sighed as she shifted, folding her legs under her. The washing machine she was using as her perch was empty - as was the rest of the laundry room. Though she wasn’t expecting it to stay that way; as the day went on, people would inevitably be coming and going.

You don’t like it because it’s suggesting something permanent and you don’t do permanent, her thoughts hissed. I don’t do permanent because I don’t know what it’s like to want that. To have to consider someone else. And I’m not sure if I want to.

Even after you spent all of this time thinking about him, all of that cosmos moving shit?

Okay, so, it is legitimately a strange twist of fate and the cosmos and whatever that we found each other again. The statistical odds alone are astronomical. That is fuck your feelings fact. I’m allowed to get emotional about things like that.

But did you let those emotions cloud what you want?

“Fuck, dude; I’ve no idea what I want,” she grumbled into her twisted reflection. “I haven’t had the slightest idea since all of this shit went sideways.”




That’s the problem with dreams; at some point, they change. And when your entire life is wrapped around a singular concept that actually, really, happens, then what? No one ever discusses the ‘then what’?

You could just wing it.

She grimaced.

Everything in her life had been according to one plan or the other. Type A to an extreme (some would even call it a disorder), she felt that her life had spiraled out of comfortable control with the end of Sister Sunshine. That had been planned. An end for that had been planned. She’d had the money, had the plot of land picked out. Had the idea to sit back and enjoy the earth before her next inspiration. To minimize.

And now she was back at square one, with a complication that had only been a fun distraction, an outlet for her frustrated inner romantic.

The dryer buzzed, sharp and grating. With a sigh, she hopped off of the washer. Looks like she wasn’t getting her answer here.












Humming “What a Fool Believes” in fits and starts, she climbed the stairs to her apartment. On the second floor (she’d lived on the ground floor once. Who knew that elephants could rent apartments, because she was certain that’s what she lived beneath), it was a short enough walk. The day, while showing signs of being clear, still had the sharp bite of winter, and by the time she made it back in, her arms were covered in gooseflesh and her nipples were erect points beneath her top.

“Jeesussss,” she huffed, slipping inside the apartment, catching the door with her butt. “It’s cold as hell out there. I swear to God, it’d be warmer if it actually snowed, y’know? Is this gonna be warm enough for you?” She held up the neatly folded stack of his clothes.

 

[Talon]

What had begun as a simple task—washing the dishes left over from breakfast—soon turned into a full once-over of the kitchen: stove, countertops, fridge, sink.

It wasn’t that the place needed it—if anything, Rus found it nearly spotless, a fact that pleased him more than he cared to admit. Whether that meant Cassandra had tidied up just before he came over or that she always kept it that way remained to be seen. But on a first-impression basis, he was impressed.

Was he a neat freak? He leaned more to that side than the other, though not out of compulsion or obsession. It was more a habit ingrained from childhood. His mother kept a spotless home—despite the warning of the “Bless This Mess” crocheted plaque that hung just inside the front door.

Cleanliness is next to godliness, after all.

And what did every good cleaning session require? A soundtrack.

Luckily, he had his phone with him–despite cleaning and straightening up what little had been put out of place since last night, he didn’t want to go fiddling with her stereo setup, seeing that perhaps as a bridge too far– and so he’d settled for propping it against her kitchen knife block beside the stove and hitting play on his “Get Shit Done” play list.

First up? Mr. Brownstone.

Humming and singing along beneath his breath, Rus cast the makeshift towel-skirt aside after it slid off his hips one too many times. Despite the ‘bubble’ shape his well-developed glutes gave his buttocks, his hips had always been narrow, and no amount of musculature would fix that.

Not knowing which of the kitchen washcloths were fair game for cleaning, he settled on the two-handed paper towel method—one wet, one dry.

Wax on, wax off.

Around the sink and the countertop beside it. Across the stove. Down the front of the fridge and the door handle. With a cursory search through the cabinets to gauge where to put what, he emptied the dish-drying rack after giving the plates and pan from that morning a quick wipe down.

Hands-on-hips, he assessed his work with a curt nod of approval. He wasn’t sure she would even notice–not beyond the dishes, anyway–but in truth, it was more for him than it was for her. She’d had him over, let him sleep in her bed, wash in her shower, cooked him breakfast- not to mention the sex.

Rus cleared his throat as he felt a pulse of heat surge through his loins. He crossed his arms over his chest like he could physically restrain himself.

How much of this- the fluttering in his gut- was about the sex, and the prospect of more of it?

He’d be lying if he said none at all. He’d missed it. Sex for pleasure as opposed to for profit. Not that they were mutually exclusive, but there was something different about last night—something that set it apart from all the times they’d been together shooting Sister Sunshine. He’d been allowed to want it. To indulge in his physical attraction to her. And it had felt good to feel that returned.

More than the pleasurable sensation of penetration, there was something else underneath. The sex was the cherry. But this—this something else, these feelings—were the sundae.

The whipped cream? The sound of her voice as she climaxed... or maybe that tight little coochie of hers…

Coochie?

A Maggie-ism.

What had started as a chuckle in his throat evolved into a clearing, arms uncrossing as he rubbed his hands together in front of his chest, heat crawling up his back and over the humps of his shoulders, his ears suddenly burning.

Jesus, I’m down bad…

He laughed, the motion in his hands shifting upward to rub his forearms, trying to quell the goosebumps rising there despite the comfortably warm apartment.

It had been years since he’d thought this much about sex. He was still a man, of course, at or at least near enough to his physical prime that his sex drive had not entirely faded away. But it was more like a nostalgic thing whenever it did come up. Hell, he didn’t even really masturbate that much anymore, and even when he did, it felt more like maintenance, like changing the oil in his truck, than it did engaging in an activity simply for the pleasure of it.

Donning his towel-skirt once more, as if to hide from himself the semi-erect state of his sex, Rus settled back into the beanbag chair with his phone in hand, intent on banishing the sudden bout of horniness that had crept up on him with a bit of idle scrolling-

Why did it feel like a bad thing, to be horny?

He wriggled his hips as he settled into the chair, letting his head loll back, staring up at the ceiling.

I don’t want her to think it’s just about the sex.

With a frustrated grunt, he lifted his head, bringing his phone up as he unlocked the screen. He pressed pause on the song that had been playing– the chorus of Sad but True– before swiping up out of the player and over to his homescreen.

A red bubble over the Messages app: 3 unread.

Stretching his thumb over to tap the icon, his eyebrows raised curiously.

At the top of the queue: Maggie. The preview, a solitary "?"

He scoffed, tapping her name to open the thread.


tell me you got her number, tex

or at least you invited her out to dinner, or somthin

?


Rus shook his head, taking his phone in both hands, thumbs typing out–

We had dinner, yes.​

Her response came instantly.

… had?

just dinner?

no desert?

I’ll tell you later, Mags.​

woah

u got laid, u fucker

I said I’ll tell you later, nosey ass.
​

holy shit

no wonder its so cold out, hell has frozen over

Rus smirked–


call me

Can’t right now. I’ll call you later.

Promise.​

boo

u better

i want deets

Yes, mom.​

i mean it

Love ya.​

luv you too, have fun


Rus locked his phone and let it fall from his grasp to his lap below, his head falling back again as he sucked in a deep breath through his nose and exhaled it loudly.



The sound of her coming up the steps alerted him, granting enough time for him to extricate himself from the beanbag chair and re-wrap the towel around his waist securely before the sound of the key turning in the lock confirmed that it was her.

Feeling awkward suddenly, in his makeshift towel-skirt, he crossed his arms over his chest to make himself look a bit more manly, a warm smile of greeting on his face as the door swung open–

His eyebrows crept up his forehead as he stood transfixed, oblivious to the stack of neatly folded laundry she held out to him.

Fuck… thats hot…

It looked as if her nipples could cut glass. Not particularly large, as far as nipples go, but they stood out prominently against the thin fabric of her shirt.

At another time, he might have laughed it off or offered a joke. “Is it cold outside, or are you just happy to see me?” Something to that effect.

As it was, it was like a wave of sexual heat washed over him, enough that he hardly felt the blast of cold air that had accompanied her entrance.

Finally acknowledging what she was carrying, he took a few steps towards her, taking the bundle from her hands before turning to toss it over atop the beanbag chair he’d recently vacated as she let the door shut behind her. Turning back to face her, rather than stepping aside to allow her to enter the apartment, he stepped closer, the boyish grin returning to his lips as he met her eyes.

“I’ll be fine…” He drew closer, until he had to look down to hold her gaze. “Thanks, y’know, for taking care of me like that. My hero…” He motioned behind him towards his discarded file of freshly laundered clothes. “...but, uh…” And then down at himself, clad only in her borrowed towel. “...still drying off from the shower, y’know?”

A lie. Clearly. He’d been out of the shower for a good thirty to forty minutes. His tone was playful, though, suggesting he wasn’t trying all that hard to sell it.

The white of his front teeth bit into his lower lip as he moved closer. “... besides. No better way to warm up than skin-to-skin...” He reached up with a hand, thumb caressing her cheek as it moved past, his forehead craning down to touch hers as he drew close enough that she could feel the heat of his body.

The fast-becoming-familiar scent of her shampoo sent a jolt of electricity up his spine.

“Fuck…” he whispered as his other arm encircled her waist and pulled her midsection in towards his. His voice was throaty, deep, tinged with raspy arousal. “... you look sexy as hell in those sweats, y’know that?” The tip of his nose brushed against hers, his breath fresh, carrying on it the scent of her toothpaste.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Titty-less Crew.

She’d read somewhere that that’s where the group T.L.C. got their name from; given their sense of humor, it was plausible. And she, too, had been a member of that particular club for years. Even now, she wouldn’t say that she had much of a bust. And it wasn’t something that particularly bothered her; made it easier for her to go without a bra. Even when her nipples happened.

The size of pencil erasers, they were less of a period and more of an exclamation point when it came to determining the weather. Sure, they got the occasional stare, but it was easily brushed off. They were just nipples; they were just breasts, and, in her opinion, nothing too much to write home about. Definitely a modest handful at best, they had the “added benefit” of not bouncing too much when she walked. Another model she knew, one that went by Rooted Ruth, had, at last measurement, H cups, which looked all the larger on her otherwise trim frame. Ruth had amazing proportions - maybe not what most people would traditionally go for, but there seemed to be such care taken in the molding of her limbs. She was darker-skinned than Cassandra, a deep sepia to Cassandra’s warm brown, and a few inches taller. She literally seemed to be a marble statute come to life, and it was damn near impossible not to stop what you were doing when she was either getting dressed or undressed in front of you.

Though Cassandra considered herself strictly heterosexual, even she couldn’t resist staring at her, and her breasts, as they’d gotten undressed for a shoot.

“They’re huge, right?” Ruth had said, with a wry twist of her full lips. Her tone suggested that she was all too familiar with the reaction her chest inspired.

“I’m so sorry,” Cassandra had stammered out, feeling her face go completely red. “I mean, they are, but they’re also really pretty - like, your skin is so smooth and even. Jesus,” she’d managed a weak chuckle, “there’s no way for me to complement you on them without sounding like a creep.”

Ruth had actually laughed - loud and boisterous, and, wiping tears from her eyes, simply took Cassandra’s hand, and put it squarely on her left breast.

“Oh my god they’re so soft!”

“I know, right? Almost enough to make up for the bras I gotta buy. You wouldn’t believe how expensive they are - and of course the bigger the tit, the uglier the bra. I swear to god, if someone broke into my underwear drawer, they’d think I was a 70 year old grandma.”

Cassandra had learned a vital lesson that day - everyone loved tits. But really nice tits? Really, really nice tits? They were a work of art. And Ruth knew it, pains and all.

I wonder how Ruth’s doing.

All of that crossed her mind as she watched Rus’s eyes go to her breasts. A normal response.

“You know, in erotica, they always have a trope about ‘his heated gaze.’ When you look at me like that, I can totally see where it comes from,” a cheeky response to him as he pulled closer. “And they’re sweats, Rus. Comfortable clothing.” She slid into his arms as naturally as getting into bed. “Not ‘seduction clothing.’” A light, playful cluck of her tongue.

Okay, so maybe she’d day-dreamed about a similar situation. Who Rustin was in those fantasies changed according to her mood - she was self-aware to admit that. And the face that this Rustin was showing her? That open desire, the slight bite of his lower lip? Well, it made her want to tease him.

He was playing right into her hands, really.

“Though maybe you might need to cool down further before we discuss ‘body heat,’” her spare hand, the one not entangled around his waist, yanked lightly at the towel at his waist. With a firm flick of her wrist, it was entirely in her hand, leaving him bare. She carelessly dropped it on the floor before turning her full attention back to him.

Looking up into clear blue eyes, she smirked, just a bit. “Look at you, Mr. Daniels,” his name crisp professionalism. “Completely naked - after taking my very kind offer of your not only cleaned, but folded clothes. That was done at my expense, by the way.” She would stand on her tiptoes, breathing words against his lips. “So I think I’ll take my payment now. And then, maybe when we’re square, we can actually figure out what to do with the day. Since, you know, we’re supposed to be getting to know each other.”

Her voice dropped as she did - easily sinking to her knees in front of him. In a burst of inspiration, she grabbed the towel from the floor, and looped it around his buttocks, pulling him forward to her, her nose nearly colliding with his phallus.

“Still as beautiful as I remember him - and you,” she looked up with a reassuring gaze. This was a game - a fun one, one they were both meant to enjoy. That there was still so much more to him than just what lay in front of him. Reaching up with her left hand, she dragged her fingers down the plane of his stomach, stopping against his pubic hair.

“Hrm,” a thoughtful pause. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable,” and, using the towel as a rein, she maneuvered him the short distance to the bedroom wall, the place where, in a sense, it had all begun a few hours before. Surprisingly enough, she was able to move without standing, shuffling over on her knees. With his back firmly against the wall and the towel still around his rear, she tightened the ends in her hand, leaning back to look up at him. Time had been kind to him, his body not as tight as it was when they shot - but neither was hers - but the core of it, ah, the center of him, that hadn’t changed. Sorrow was there, she could sense it, but the flesh, largely unchanged, still smooth under her touch, responsive to the slightest change in her fingertips.

“I think I’ll start here.” A flick of her tongue against his head, little more than teasing experiment. It’d be too easy to swallow him until she gagged, but no. Not yet, at least. It was far more fun to lap at him, dragging her tongue up and down the sides of him, like a dribbling ice cream cone. Not once did she close her lips over him; content to lap away, re-familiarizing herself with him.

 

[Talon]

Rus hummed, amused, as she pulled the towel from his hips. His teeth again caught his lower lip, eyebrows arched in expressive delight, a smug, almost shit-eating grin spread wide across the lower half of his face. With his forehead still pressed to hers, he looked every bit the man who’d just gotten exactly what he wanted.

Freed from its confinement, the head of his sex brushed against her belly just below the navel, bridging the space between them—eager to touch, to be touched, to be acknowledged, to be used. A bead of precum, gathered at the prominent slit like fresh morning dew, had nestled into the cleft along the underside before soaking into the fabric of her shirt as he nudged against her middle.

Even as his cock pulsed with desire, his gaze didn’t waver. Locked on hers, he stood transfixed, drinking her in—so attuned that when she rose onto her toes to whisper against his lips, he leaned into her without hesitation.

The look in his eyes spoke to his desire louder than any words he could have uttered.

Swallow me...

His cock flexed with a surge of energy as she playfully spoke of extracting payment for services rendered.

“And then, maybe when we’re square, we can actually figure out what to do with the day. Since, you know, we’re supposed to be getting to know each other.”

He nodded wordlessly, again gnawing at his lip as he leaned in for a kiss—more than words, more than a look, a kiss might let her feel how much he wanted this, might convey more clearly what he needed, now, just as she had the night before. Surely she’d recognize that. Maybe not answered with full-on sex—there was still the issue of birth control looming—but there were other ways to scratch that itch.

Before the message could be passed mouth to mouth, she was in motion, narrowly avoiding his kiss—not from rejection, but because her attention had already shifted… to a more fitting messenger.

She could see exactly which way the wind was blowing as she knelt before him.

Not bashful, but brash, was his cock. As his former professional moniker had promised, he was as hard as steel. Not sticking straight out, but damn near enough to be forgiven a few degrees. Perhaps because it was more stout than long—thick near the tip, but thickest at the base like the root of some great tree—it hung stubbornly suspended in the air between them, bearing its own weight with ease. The nest of hair at his pubis still seemed out of place, like a mustache on a man who had only ever been seen clean-shaven. Messy and unruly, but downy-soft to the touch, freshly washed and faintly scented with her soap, bearing only the faintest trace of masculine musk, that acrid tinge of fresh cum in the air.

A smile from him—and a twitch from his cock, swaying just an inch from her nose—as she complimented him. When she reached up to touch him, his whole torso came alive: shoulders back, chest out, her touch electric. She could feel the deep intake of breath as much as hear it, could sense the flex of muscle beneath her fingertips. The light dusting of chest hair was shorter than the tangle below, but just as soft. His navel—an innie—sat nestled in the path of hair that ran from sternum to groin.

Rus sucked in air through his teeth as her hand trailed down his stomach. His eyes, once more locked on hers, gave his full attention to her, not her hand, not his cock, not the electric proximity—but her. The tops of his ears burned. Goosebumps rose along his forearms and neck. His nostrils flared, and the pendulous sack that hung below his sex had drawn up tight, barely swinging at all. He felt the twitch of his sphincter as the muscle along his pelvic floor fired, his cock narrowly missing brushing her nose as it pulsed again, throbbing with want.

“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”

Unlike the night before, there was no playful resistance offered as she repositioned him. It wasn’t that she had broken him, made him subject to her every whim—though it certainly looked that way. In truth, it was more that he trusted her. To steer him. To shepherd him. To guide him toward satisfaction. He believed her motives were pure. That her pleasure was his pleasure, and—maybe even more than that—his was hers.

She hardly needed the towel to restrain him, his arms placed behind his back of his own volition, right wrist clasped in left hand, shoulders pressed back against the wall, the musculature of his upper body tensing, flexing, firing, his glutes clenching as he felt another involuntary twitch of his sphincter, sending another surge of energy through his cock. He was like putty in her hands, to be molded to fit her artistic vision, a canvas for her brush, a page for her pen…

“I think I’ll start here.”

A dull thud as the back of his head hit the wall, eyes squeezing shut. He wanted to watch, wanted to see, but the feel of her tongue, warm and wet, along the side of his cock was enough to for a moment overwhelm his senses.

“Jesus…” He muttered below a belabored exhale, sounding like the joyful exclamation of a sore man settling into a hot bath.

“Yes…” A whisper, barely heard, as if not meant for her ears. A sharp sucking-in of breath through his nose…

He could feel every movement of her tongue, dragging lazily down the sides of his cock as if it were not a thing to be devoured whole, but, like an ice cream cone, rather, consumed lick by lick by lick…

“Yes…” Another positive affirmation, his voice throaty, tinged with lustful rasp. “God, Cassandra…” He gave voice to the full of her name, not in the way of a disapproving parent, but more like she’d earned it. ‘Cass’ almost sounded cute. Cassandra, on the other hand, was the name of a woman who could drive a man crazy with a few licks of her tongue.

It was not his words alone by which she had to gather feedback. His cock itself was clearly in approval, not only in how it pulsed–that prominent ridge along the bottom of the head flaring, swollen to the point of near-purple redness– but there, at the tip, wetness, a fat drop of pearly-white precum had spawned.

The fingers gripping his wrist behind his back bit painfully into his flesh as his hips flexed, his pelvis rocking forward, not in an impertinent thrust, as if demanding, but as if to bring that part of him closer to that part of her, to that lovely bit of muscle, so warm and wet and soft, stroking up and down the side of him, as if seeking to map out the jagged network of sinuous veins that ran the length.

Swallow you whole… her words resounded in his ears.

“Yes… God… it feels so fuckin’ good.” His nostrils flared as he drank in another gulp of air. “Suck it…” There was some small measure of dark desire in his tone, though it rang more of supplication than demand. He wanted to tell her how much he wanted it, how he needed it, not this in particular, maybe, but also this, to be pleased by her however she saw fit. Mouth, tongue, lips, hand, cunt, ass… it didn’t matter, the where, nor the how, only the when.

Now. He needed it now.

His eyes opened, then, finally, as his head fell forward, chin to chest. His mouth was open, his chest rising and falling quickly as he all but panted. He was watching, waiting, the promise of pleasure like a tidal wave bearing down on him, and there he was, in the vastness of the ocean, in a boat with no paddle, watching in awe, too late to turn back to shore, he could only watch as it came crashing down over him.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

He looked like the cat that caught the canary, and his boyish expression of glee touched her. Men were supposedly so easy - that’s what the media, the internet, said. On one hand, she could agree. But on the other, looking at his face like this, it wasn’t simplicity that she saw, but enjoyment. She could overthink it and chalk it up to nothing more than a man about to get his dick sucked -and she’d yet to read anything about a guy turning down head-, or she could see it for what it was; another way of saying ‘hello’ between the two of them.

And it wasn’t like she didn’t miss this.

It bore as much repeating as she could muster - he had a beautiful cock. No small wonder that they’d decided to make casts of it, though she figured that largely had to do with his girth. His cock would be better captured in the likes of marble, the smoothness of stone giving way to the delicate raised veins. But even that wouldn’t capture the warm velvet skin of him under her tongue, the smell, the taste - things she barely had the words to describe, other than a fumbling, “It tastes like Rustin.”

The curved ridge of his head; how smooth taunt the skin was there. How deep his slit was; how lightly to probe it to get him to ooze out more of the acrid salt of his precum. Though her fingers itched to caress his length, grip the base of his shaft, she settled in cupping his sack, the weight of his testicles like heavy eggs. Healthy, maybe, an idle part of her brain wondered. Wonder if there was a correlation between testicle weight and fertility. She’d have to look that up later. For now, she gently shifted them in her hand, her fingers curling and loosening, shifting, testing. Dragging her tongue down the side of his cock now, she lowered her head, placing a sucking kiss to where the base of him met the top of his sack, his fine hair tickling her nose. Then the lightest of bites, unable to resist the softness of the skin, the way it yielded to her mouth and tongue. Shifting, her tongue wound round the side of him, almost if she were trying to circle the base of him with her tongue alone. The task would be an impossible one, but not for lack of her trying, and laughing, as she failed. She absolutely refused to take the ‘easy route’ - how much easier would it be for her to literally swallow him until she could take him in her mouth no further, run the risk of gagging, just to get her lips wrapped firmly around his base?

Well. That did sound fun. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Rocking back on her heels comfortably, she took in a deep breath, her nostrils flaring, before she gave him a good-luck kiss to his head, ending it with a slow lap of his slit, tongue running along her full lower lip with an audible smack. Another breath, exhaled, then another great inhale, and she was taking him into her mouth. Slowly, at first, with the adjustment of tongue and teeth, the former to ease his passing into her, the latter, her trying to angle away from him. She was rusty - she wouldn’t have a problem with admitting that - and though she moved slow, there were times where she simply had to stop and collect what little air she could, have to adjust on her heels, keep her hands, now, stubbornly glued to the floor for the additional leverage. She’d swallow him if it was the last thing she did that day.

She wasn’t entirely idle when she stilled - her tongue filled the gap, lashing up and down the sides, caressing beneath his cock settled on her bottom jaw. Swallowing was a bit difficult as the free space in her mouth was being filled, but it was coming back to her. Like riding a bike - the thought made her laugh, then nearly cough, so full of his cock was her mouth. But undeterred, she moved forward, forcing her throat to relax. Swallow. Swallow it slowly, girl. You got this.

A slight bulge in her throat as she managed to accommodate him, her nose now fully buried in the puff of wiry hair that framed his phallus. With as much of a cheeky grin as she could manage, she looked up at him, and held up both her hands to flash him peace signs, the v’s held firmly by her fingers as she balanced on her heels and shins, drool easing out of the corner of her mouth and trailing down the side of her jaw. The only thing it was truly missing was the off-white splatter of cum across her face, and it could’ve been a still from one of their old videos.

She held it for it longer than she thought she could, but then her hands had to return to the pale sandy carpet to steady herself. Leaning back slow was a reminder to keep relaxed, to let him slide out from the depths of her throat with a thick schlick, fat with the sound of spit and loosening of suction, and when he was poised to pop out, a hard suck to his head and he was out, leaving her to breathe heavily. She’d been on the verge of light headed and hadn’t even thought about it, so intent was she on deep throating him, and for a moment, she let the spots dance before her eyes, before she she was chuckling again.

“Oh my god how did I used to do that so much with you?” This time she was looking back up on him, sitting primly on her shins, her left hand cupping his balls while her right lazily stroked his spit-soaked cock, slimy and shiny, and the look on her face was that of being presented with the gift she’d wanted most for her birthday. A wide grin that was almost so polished that it was made just for those videos, that porn mistress’s girlishness, a gee whiz mister that seemed to win over so many viewers. In her case, like everything else with him, it wasn’t faked. There was something natural about taking him in as deep as she could, burying him within her. And it wasn’t long before she felt ready to do it again.

Caressing the corner of her lips with her tongue, she gave him a slight wrinkle of her nose, impish. “I don’t think I’ve been paid nearly enough - and here I am, doing all of the work. Again. Don’t you have any shame?” A flick to his knee; enough to sting momentarily. “Shame on you, Mr. Daniels.” Something in saying his last name felt like cradling the bird of him close to her; keeping him from leaving within a cage of her claws. “Well, I’m going to need you to put the work in.”

She lifted herself to her knees, another shift of her weight to keep the tops of her feet pressed down to the carpet to anchor herself. It wasn’t the easier position to hold, but with any luck, she was hoping what she had in mind wouldn’t keep her here for long. And besides, Rustin and her always had a sort of natural rapport; he could read her body language as well as she could his. He’d know when it was time to change things up, but -

“Put in the work, and give me my payment. This,” she cupped his balls again. “Empty them for me.” Her right hand moved to place his right on the back of her head, and a glance up at him made sure that he followed suit with his left. Then, she held her mouth open, tongue lolling out, wordlessly telling him to fuck her mouth.

It wasn’t something that she thought she’d be into - truly. That was something he’d woken up in her, and something she hadn’t been so shy to tell him after their first session trying it. He wasn’t rough to start with; none of the disgusting gagging and clear distress that was seen in mainstream porn. No slapping until her face was red and her nose ran and her eyes watered, but a slow, steady, then more rapid, taking of his pleasure from her mouth and throat. The way he’d caress the side of her face as he worked his hips in and out, the way he purred in pleasure as he would softly remind her to breathe before he slipped back in - one of the most fun sessions had been with her hanging off of the side of the bed, head tilted backwards, while he stroked her throat and fucked it at the same time with a degree of tenderness that made her shiver. It would be a slight change in her dynamic, where the unspoken rule was that she was always in control, even if he was larger than her. This seemed a nice change, where he would appear to be clearly dominate, the one taking what he wanted, when, really, in the end, it was her that allowed it. And maybe it had been her openness in even suggesting it that could’ve made it easier for him.

Still, though, she was very serious about getting what she was owed. I’m gonna make you fucking cum so hard you’re gonna faint.

 

[Talon]

To get exactly what you want precisely when you want it.

Satiation.

Bliss.

What Cassandra was doing– blowjob was an inadequate descriptor, more like she was making love to his dick with her mouth– was absolute fucking bliss.

Hell, never mind the warmth of her tongue, or the caress of hands well-accustomed to being worked with, just the way she looked at him– at it– was enough to nearly get him there. ‘Dick-matized’, she’d said semi-jokingly, but here she fully looked it. As if his cock were a thing of beauty, an object of worship. It still didn’t make him feel objectified at all, in truth, nor had the previous praise he’d received numbed him to the effect of seeing her in her open admiration of it. It was hot. Fuckin’ hot. And he kept no secrets from her when it came to showing her how much it pleased him.

More than his breathing-heavy, through the nose, inhales taken in great gulps of air, exhales audible, expressive, like little angered snorts, accompanied by little snarls of sound that bordered on the edge between moan and growl-, more than the clenching of fingers into fists, the musculature along his forearms tensing. Or the way his eyelids fluttered, half-closed, pupils obscured beneath, brow raised. Above all else, there was the response from his cock. It pulsed with virile energy in response to the actions of her tongue, the fat lump of flesh that was its head flaring, flush with blood, ruddy in color, spongy in texture, and yet smooth as silk to the touch.

Even had she been suddenly struck blind and deaf, so long as she could feel, there could be no doubt as to just how turned on he was, how aroused her ‘treatment’ of him had made him. Sure, he’d been eager; the lack of a blown load the night before had left him with a nasty case of blue balls. But, in typical Cassandra fashion, she was evoking something more from him now, coaxing forth a deeper desire, more than the seeking of a simple scratch of that itch, he needed it, deep, deep down. Needed the fullness of the experience that only she had ever provided him, of all the partners he'd been with, professional or not, over the years.

He’d never told her as much–it wasn’t the sort of thing a ‘scene partner’ told their fellow actor. In a world where people you had sex with were very regularly romantically attached to someone else, telling them that the sexual experience with them was ‘special’ was to court disaster. You could tell them it was good sex, sure, like filling out a comment card at your favorite restaurant. '5 Star Service', and all that. But a certain amount of emotional weight accompanied the ‘best ever’. It implied something more than physical. That there was a deeper connection that had formed.

“... fffffuuuuuck.”

His mouth spoke less articulately than his body, and with less elegance than his thoughts were forming, but the point was made, nonetheless, as she began ‘playing’ with his balls. One of the more sensitive spots on his body, as far as erogenous zones went. Way too sensitive for the kinkier stuff- he couldn’t imagine having them stepped on, or slapped, or squeezed too hard, even, in an erotic context– but not so much that Cassandra’s actions were unwelcome. Whether she remembered or was merely that good at reading him, her caressing of them, of that pendulous sack still hanging heavily as if in testament to his virility, straddled the line of overstimulation perfectly, his toes curling into the carpet.

The sharp hiss of air sucked through his teeth as his head was thrust back to thump against the wall behind him. “... shit… fuck.” He hardly felt the impact, or the bite of his fingernails into the flesh of his palms– the entire scope of his perception was reduced to what she was doing, to the caressing of his balls, the laps of her tongue along the shaft, the playful nip of her teeth there at the base…

And then she upped the ante.

His cock wasn’t exactly easy to deepthroat. Not that he’d ever tried, himself–not with his, nor anyone else’s, for that matter-but it had been attempted on him plenty. Turns out that the traits that made it pleasurable in penetrative ventures made it difficult to be swallowed. Not for the faint of heart or weak of jaw.

Lucky for him, then, that Cassandra was neither.

More than that cute little kiss she gave the tip or the feel of her plush lips engulfing it, there was the working of her tongue. He’d remembered that about her, that she was ‘good’ with it. Had it seared in his brain, the sort of thing you don’t forget, not when it felt that good, when it was capable of providing that much pleasure. Warm and wet and soft, as articulate in touch as it was in the forming of words, wriggling, cradling, caressing, stroking the underside of his cock as if welcoming every inch of him as she took him deeper inside her mouth.

A deep, masculine huff. “…fuck.” Nearly a whisper.

She took her time readjusting herself to performing the act--like a steaming-hot bath, you don’t just flop your ass down in the tub, you ease in, toes first– and he was content for the moment to just be acted upon, to be pleased, though he was not entirely passive. A hand at the side of her head—not urging, or pulling, or attempting to guide, more a caress, more to ground himself, there, in the moment.

Slowly, but steadily, she took him deeper, back and forth a few times, in and out, his cock throbbing, that thickness of the ridge around the head wedged up against the roof of her palate from the pressure of her tongue pressing up against the underside, the sensation making his eyelids flutter and drawing his lips into an easy smile. His buttocks clenched, thrusting his pelvis ever-so-slightly forward, as his fingers curled into her hair. For the moment, his eyes remained half-closed, Rus just reveling in the feel, the sound, the wet gluck, gluck, gluck as she worked more and more of him into her mouth. As she nearly choked on a mouthful of him, an event he felt as much as heard, his eyes finally opened, and he looked down…

She knelt before him in a classically submissive pose—but there was no submission in her eyes. Only control. Hunger. Intention. Determination. To consume him, to complete fully the task she’d set upon herself. And, fighting past the urge to gag, lips working as they inched down his shaft, stretched thin as her mouth opened wide to accommodate his challenging girth, she did just that, swallowing the full of him whole, burying her nose in the nest of soft hair at his pubis.

“...mmmmm…” A strained groan as he felt a surge of pleasure shoot up his spine, his head jerking back before turning back down towards her. “Fuck…you’re good at that…” As if in response to his praise, she brought her hands up beside her face, flashing two victory signs up at him with her fingers. Had her lips not been stretched to the fullest, he was sure the corners of her mouth would be twisted up in a smile; he could read as much in her eyes.

And just like that, she turned worship into mischief, reverence into something playful and unguarded.

As if he wasn’t already smitten…

Rus laughed, his easy grin lighting up his features with warmth. “Fuck… I’d call you cute, if you weren’t busy sucking my fuckin’ soul out… Christ…”

Not content to rest on her laurels, she held him deep, sucking with steady, ravenous focus, the wet slurp of continually applied suction droning, the sensation intense, mixing with the sight and the sound, the eroticness of it all causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end.

And then, after what seemed like it could have been a minute–a perfect, glorious, heavenly fuckin’ minute– she was pulling away, freeing her oral cavity up for a much-needed intake of air.

He was on the verge of laughter as she looked back up at him, sharing in the lightness of her mood. Sex with her was, and had always been, from the very first time, above all else, fun. She just had a way of putting him at ease with her confidence.

“Oh my god how did I used to do that so much with you?”

He laughed, shaking his head as if to concur with her that he was equally in disbelief. Biting his lip, a curious, hungered gaze followed as she idly stroked the spit-slick length of his cock with a sensuous motion. On the edge of a response, he couldn’t bring himself to offer a quip. What was he going to say? Something corny, like she rocked his world, blew his socks off? Both true, but hardly worth saying. Besides, he hardly had the spare air for it, given that he had to remember each time to force himself to exhale. And with how his teeth were busy gnawing at his bottom lip, the words would come out little more than an unintelligible mumble, anyway.

A twitch of his brow as her fist worked up the shaft of his cock, fingers curling and working around the swollen ridge at the base of his head. His nostrils flared. Breathe. He told himself, and he sucked in a deep breath through his nose. Movement, then, as she shifted, and he looked over towards her, meeting her smile with one of his own, his eyes flickering over her features, over the line of drool that had worked its way from the corner of her mouth down across her jawline.

No, not smitten. He was enthralled.

 

[Talon]

“I don’t think I’ve been paid nearly enough - and here I am, doing all of the work. Again. Don’t you have any shame?”

A grunt was all he managed. He didn’t. Not when it felt this fucking good not to.

“Well, I’m going to need you to put the work in.”

A smile in response, more of that kid-in-a-candystore, ‘I’m about to get my dick sucked’ cockiness creeping into the sideway slant of his lips.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, rolling his shoulders, craning his neck from side-to-side, looking like he was preparing to lift something heavy, or swing an axe, or a hammer, to exert himself, to destroy, to decimate. His teeth gnawed into his bottom lip again, but this time, the rest of his features bore a look of determination.

“Put in the work, and give me my payment. This… empty them for me.”

Rus didn’t fight her positioning of his hands. As she wriggled her tongue out at him, conveying to him the target upon which he was meant to ‘empty them’, he busied himself with gathering her hair behind her head with both hands, as if he were putting it up into a ponytail. No tie or scrunchie to hold it in place, though, only his fist, fingers clenched through it like one of those plastic clips with the multitude of little interlocking prongs.

“Yes, ma’am…” He replied with only the slightest twinge of playful sarcasm. His left hand busy holding back her hair, its twin moved to grasp his cock by the base. Taking a step forward, close enough that he would have to pull his hips back to free up space between them if he intended to penetrate her mouth, he stroked it, slowly, wetly, that thick, sticky spit, the kind you only get from the back of the throat, making the motion an audible one. His fist worked his length a few times, angled so the head was just there at her eye level, and he brandished it at her in the air with a few jerks of his wrist, as if he were a priest about to anoint her with holy water. His precum was not so liberal flowing that it was flung with the motion, though, with such proximity, she could see another fat droplet forming in that deep crevasse at the tip of the head.

It brushed the ridge of her nose, leaving a faint trail of wetness as it slid across her nostril, down her lip, and into the corner of her mouth, before it finally came to rest hovering over her offered tongue. As his hips pulled back, with his fist he swung his cock, tapping the head against her tongue, mashing it into the soft bit of muscle, transferring what remained of his wetness that had not been left behind on her skin as it traveled. Not looking to tease, they were well beyond that–her wanting it, him needing it– his hips pressed forward, her lips working open around the mass of flesh, stretching into an ‘O’ shape as they were made to accommodate him.

Leaving it there, letting her tongue work against the underside, his hand that was on his cock released its grip, dropping to reach for one of her own, to pull it back up to his testicles, to hold her wrist there a moment as he felt her fingers grip into the sagging mass of flesh.

“Keep them there.” Gruff, but more request than order, at least in tone. The dynamic between them had hardly shifted, even though he was the one who had been put ‘in charge’, at least for now.

Left hand still gripping her hair at the back of her head, the other then moved to encircle her neck, just below her jaw. Reversed, so that thumb and forefinger were in front, her chin sat cupped within the seat of his palm.

Wasting no time, he began with a gentle probing– like the night before, when the natural tightness of her cunt had served to slow his penetrative progress– testing her limits, how deep he could go before her gag reflex would trigger. Not merely an act of assessment, though, for here, in the ‘shallows’, was where her tongue—her fuckin’ magical tongue—could work most freely, before her limits were tested, when there was still some measure of room for it to maneuver. And it was also where she had room to breathe, particularly when he pulled back, when only the head remained inside, still thick and fat, plush as a small plum, pliable enough with the sponginess of flesh that there was some give to it.

She could taste him, surely, with the source of his precum so near her tastebuds, and he kept it there, for the moment, if not for that express reason, but just for himself to savor, to let her tongue work, to feel it lash along the underside of the shaft. Both hands, behind and below her head, held her in place, more to keep her in place against the movement of his hips than to keep her restrained, though it served much the same purpose.

Slow thrusts of his hips, working a thumbs length of his cock into the willing heat of her mouth. A pace that would have been a tease had he been between her thighs, but here, it was steady. There was no ‘spot’ inside her throat he sought to stroke, no clit to rub against, so the pace need not take her pleasure into account beyond how comfortably she could accommodate what he was giving her. No, this was a thing of selfishness, of what made him feel good, of what hit his spot.

Feeling impish, perhaps, he angled his hips slightly to the side so that the next thrust would change the angle, the head of his cock poking into the inside of her cheek, bulging it out to accomodate, her teeth just scraping against the sensitive flesh before she could open her jaw wider in response. He pulled back quickly, before she could properly respond, grinning down at her, tightening his grip at the back of her head and around her throat, enough that it was nearly a choke.

Straightening his hips, he bucked his pelvis, buttocks clenched, his aim corrected, her lips stretching as his cock grew thicker near the middle, the head, that fat knob at the tip, plugging the entrance to her throat, drawing from her a sputter in response. He held it there a moment, relishing the feel of her throat convulsing around him, her tongue wriggling against the underside of his cock as she fought to supress her gag reflex. Only a moment, though, and he was pulling back, enough that she could draw air in, that she could swallow. They’d done this before, multiple times, but much like her, he was relearning her limits. It was like driving a car versus being a passenger; what she could take of him comfortably while she was in control might not be the same as when it was his choice as to how deep she would take him.

Rus didn’t need an exchange of words or a gesture from her to see that she was ready for more; it was in her eyes, the way she looked up at him hungrily. She’d given him an order, and he’d yet to fulfill it.

 

[Talon]

“Put in the work, and give me my payment. This… empty them for me.”

Nostrils flaring, sucking in a deep breath through his nose, Rus thrust with his hips again. Deep, not as deep as she could take it, for she could swallow the whole thing, that much she had already proven. But that was for the end, to be worked up to. Deep enough that she felt it, though, that it wasn’t a thing of comfort that she could have done while browsing her phone or flipping through a book. There, about two-thirds of the way, that was the sweet spot. Her jaw was opened to its max. Her tongue-compressed beneath, hardly able to move beyond the slightest wriggle. He didn’t linger, this time, instead pulling back and thrusting again, and again, and again, working up to a gentle lope of torquing his hips, working past the sputters when he occasionally triggered her gag reflex again, which would make him pause a moment each time to allow her to recover before resuming his thrusting.

The lewd sound of flesh being worked against spit-slick flesh filled the air around them, titilating his ears, as his hips kept pumping. They were each hitting their stride, bodies becoming accustomed to one another, him giving and her taking, and it wasn’t long before he felt that familiar sensation as his approaching orgasm crested the horizon; he was that turned on by the whole of this thing. The sight of her, the sounds, the feel… he’d trained his body well enough to stave it off, if needed. He could slow it up or pull back, under the pretense of giving her a break. But he didn’t. He didn’t try to fight it, to hold it back, to keep it at bay. That’s not what this was. She wanted it, and he needed it. No need to delay.

“Fuck, yes…” He growled, hand tightening in her hair, now used as more of a leverage point to pull her head forward to meet each of his thrusts rather than merely keep it in place. “Cas…fuck…” The hand at her throat released its grip and joined the other, a short pause there–and he was moving again, but more, giving her more, feeding her more, of him, of it, his cock, the likeness of steel, only just malleable enough that it could bend as it made it’s way fully into her throat, as his soft little dick hairs tickled her upper lip and the tip of her nose, as she was made to take in all of him, everything he had to offer.

“Cas…” an audible swallow, his breath coming in pants. “...you’re gonna make me fuckin’ cum…” His voice had that quality where, under different circumstances, it might almost be mistaken for pain or duress, but it was clearly pleasure. “...please…” He didn’t know why he was asking permission; he couldn’t have heard her if she had given it, not with her mouth so full of him, but he was in that headspace. There was nothing else in that moment. Just her, and that magical fucking tongue.

Rus couldn’t recall the last time he’d cum with a partner. With Cassandra, during their last shoot together, most likely. Years, then. He’d cranked one out a few weeks ago, he’d reached ‘that level’ where it was time for the quarterly oil change. But there was no passion in it, hell, he couldn’t even remember what he’d been thinking about during.

Nothing like this. It felt like a flame was creeping up his back. Like his heart was about to jump out of his chest.

“Fuck…”--ejected from his throat with such pressure that a little spittle came out. Just then he relented on the pressure at the back of her head, pulling his hips back, the head of his cock pulsing as it rested there atop her tongue. “Ngggh… I’m cumming…”

It was the second-most powerful orgasm of his life(yeah, next to THAT one.).

And the first most… voluminous.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

He was polite enough to let her know he was cumming - but even that warning wasn’t enough for what prepared her for what came next. She’d swallowed before - never a huge fan; the taste was always awful -, but compared to what she’d swallowed from him in the past, it was quaint, really, to look back and think of it as “swallowing.”

In mere moments, her mouth was full past capacity, and whatever “professionalism” she might’ve had was instantly erased by her gagging sputter, which, in turn, led to her spitting up a fair amount of cum on him as she jerked back, struggling to swallow what she could, then seeing his cock still slightly spurting, she coughed, which turned into laughter, which inevitably led to more cum spattering the sides of her mouth, her chin, as she ducked to turn her head upwards, trying to catch the last few volleys of cum that came from him, and only really succeeding in getting more across her mouth, chin, collarbones, and the tops of her breasts.

But by that point, she was laughing too hard, and, wheezing, accepted her cum-covered fate.

Long moments passed, her doubled up over the carpet, her shoulders shaking from her laughing. “Oh my God,” she was finally able to croak out, “That was ridiculous. So when did you replace your dick with a firehose?”

Straightening herself out, she still sat back easily on her knees. The gray of her tank top was mottled with dark splotches. “Welp,” she reached to grab the bottom of it to wipe her face, focusing on the corners of her mouth. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to sneeze out jizz later, and when I do, I’m going to pop you.” Her top wasn’t nearly as absorbent as she needed it to be, and, taking another look down at it, she gave a dramatic sigh and tugged it over her head. “Well, looks like I’m in for a second shower. Hold tight, tiger,” a playfully light punch to his thigh as she stood up. “We’ll get this train back on track. Or whatever. But first, shower.”

She stopped for a moment, then, remembering something, her eyes lit up. Standing on her tiptoes, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and jumped up to smash her lips against his. In retrospect, she probably should’ve done it before she cleaned herself up, but hey, she was remembering it to begin with so score one for Cassandra. Her tongue snaked out, still flavored by his cum to meet with his - but not so long as to have him get a real, lingering taste. “Mwah,” she capped it, loud, playful. “And looks like I’m gonna have to brush my teeth again.”













Twice in one day.

She stood with her head bent under the rush of water. It was so hard for her to get her thoughts together, not when every moment felt like throwing yet another ball into the pile that had finally started bouncing. Her focus was everywhere; couldn’t get settled, couldn’t put her finger on that one thing that would just make it all stop.

Even in the shower, normally her safe place, she couldn’t get her thoughts to slow down, line up, anything remotely resembling something that could be sorted.

Is this moving too fast?

Or, more realistically, were they falling back into old circles, old habits? She’d admitted to herself easier that they’d fallen into one another like no time had passed. There was real desire there, that, she knew, even if it felt too good to be true. Like he’d just magically come back into her life and flipped a switch that she hadn’t realized was turned off.

But then again, to give herself some grace, the last person she’d been intimate with was him, and that was before all of the stalker nonsense. Rus was a friendly face, a familiar comfort, and sweet Jesus he knows where you live and he spent the night -

Her breath hitched. She sat down, heavily, into the shower, hardly caring that her pinned up hair was under the flow. Her breathing seemed to be stuck on inhale, her mind blanking on how to do the thing what was the thing that happened after you breathed in the thing that you have to do otherwise you die and why wasn’t it coming to her all of this steam that can’t be good -

Shaking hands turned off the shower, the flow of water ending too abruptly for her. She leaned over the edge of the tub, letting her arms and head drop downwards, as if she was trying to recover from being lightheaded. True, in a sense - but the change in position put so much pressure on her throat that it kicked that reptilian part of her brain into functioning and she was finally breathing out, taking in deep gulps of air and letting it out just as noisily.

He’s going to think that you’re crazy. You haven’t seen him in so long and you just told your truth - which by the way is probably quite off putting and he’s too nice to be rude about it - and just laid it all out there because you had the feeling - years ago - that he was a good guy and you probably just undid years worth of work in therapy, both in unhealthy attachments and putting people up on pedestals and also why were you silly enough to invite a, let’s face it, a total stranger back to your home do you want to move again?

What could she do?

The thoughts were Niagara Falls; a torrent beating down on her flowing from an endless stream of sudden realizations.

Then, suddenly, sharply, she laughed.

Maybe this is happening because you have sympathetic post nut clarity.

It was ludicrous. But maybe a little true? And what could she do now? Throw him out like she hadn’t orchestrated this whole thing, even after she was the one who ambushed him in the diner because surely he wouldn’t have recognized her or even thought twice of saying anything -

He said he was glad to see me. Or that it was good to see me. Whatever. Maybe he was being nice because sex was immanent because I mean, it’s us, and when have we not had sex?

Also, it’s totally normal to be having this kind of a breakdown post blow-job shower and he’s probably not even worried about how long you’ve been in here noooooo -

“Fuck,” grumbled into the side of the tub.










When she emerged this time, she was dressed in what had to be the world’s baggiest t-shirt on top of the world’s baggiest sweats. Completely drowning in the sea of clothes, it seemed less an exercise in comfort and more of an attempt to create her own black hole to vanish into.

And she’d taken one of those gummies, so, yeah - it would be a minute before it kicked in and she would be in that swimmy space where she was aware that maybe not everything was fine, but at least she could rest and be lost in her music. All she needed to do was get that set up, maybe have some water and nibbles on hand and maybe she’d be able to salvage this whole thing.

God. How do people do this. Exist, I mean. Knowing that no one ever really sees the same face - just the face you put on for them. You did it to him; he’s inevitably doing it to you. We speak through sex and stuff then is usually pretty good, but is it just…

“So,” she said, tamping down her thoughts, swinging her arms back and forth. Is there a nice way of saying ‘please get out of my apartment because I just had a panic attack and realized I did something really fucking stupid in bringing you here and just throwing caution to the wind because oh my god someone familiar that I have unresolved feelings for and -

“Fuck. I didn’t ask if you were seeing someone.” Actual panic showed on her face, and she groaned as she covered her face with her palms. “Goddamn IT, Cassandra,” real rage in her voice then. Of all of the stupid fucking things out of all of the stupid fucking things she’d already done…

“Okay, so, full disclosure,” still murmuring behind her hands, as if they were enough to protect her from the rising tide of awkward, “I just took an edible and we’ve got about 30 minutes before I completely check out and want to listen to music and the whole reason why I took it was because I had a fucking panic attack in the bathroom over what we just did like I didn’t learn anything from being fucking stalked and then like, inviting a stranger into my home. I like you, Rus, I do, really, and I don’t know why, maybe it’s because I don’t actually know you but built you up to be this person in my head and it got worse over time, but I dunno, you give off good vibes, or you did, and the sex is like connecting on a different plane of existence but is that really enough to like, actually be with someone?”

She managed the monumental task of pulling her hands from her face to look at him, even if she only pulled them down low enough to cover her mouth. “This is a lot. I know this is a lot. It was easier when we were pros, you know?” That was a line thrown out, desperate for him to reach out and catch it, prove that maybe her spiraling was unfounded. That he was, maybe, an iota of what she felt the cosmos had told her he was.

 

[Talon]

He wasn’t mad at all about the Rus-flavored kiss. Hell, he didn’t even try to fight it or pull away.

Really.

She had warned him of the price the night before, after all. Fair game.

Besides… something about it was kind of hot. Not in a kinky sort of way, but rather an intimate, willing, ‘experience shared’ kinda way. And it wasn’t the first time he’d ‘tasted himself’. Always purely accidental, in the past–awkward porn angles, mixed with his tendency to be ‘fruitful’--he’d caught the occasional stray streak across the lips a time or two. Hardly a thing to get all up in his head about.

And honestly, with that ‘new relationship’ smell still fresh in the air, and still riding the high of an orgasm that had left him weak in the knees, he was in no mood to object to much of anything.

Relationship.

Is that what this was? I mean, there had been relations, of one kind in particular, but that whole -ship part…

She’d excused herself to go shower immediately– something he didn’t begrudge her, not that she needed his permission, but she was positively drenched in him– which gave him a moment to cool off, for his heart rate to come back down, for excited thoughts to settle.

Before dressing, he stopped in the kitchen to wet a paper towel and wipe his dangly bits down–wouldn’t want to walk around all day smelling of dried cum–, being especially careful not to cross-contaminate anything in the kitchen with any of his DNA in the process. It had been one hell of an orgasm… he chuckled to himself as he wiped his midsection down.

God, she’s great, isn’t she?

I mean, in the list of things you can do for a lover, the ‘orgasm without reciprocation’ is pretty fuckin’ high up on the list.

Yeah. I mean, she’s great for lots of other things, beyond that. That’s just like the cherry on top…

Rus’ eyebrows lifted.

Well, y’know… at least I think she’s great. Y’know, like, from what I know of her, she’s great…

What do you really know about her, though?

Tossing the soiled square of wet paper towel in the trash, he pulled another free from the roll, wiping down the holder and the countertop around it just in case.

Not enough to know for sure that we’d be good together…

That admission, even made internally, was enough to sober him up a little from his post-orgasmic high.

But… enough to know that I’m willing to find out…

No.

Fuck that.

Not willing.

Want.

I want to find out…

He scrubbed his hands with the dry paper towel a few times more than strictly necessary, staring off into space, the hiss of the shower starting in the background rousing him from thought.

Want to…

He tossed the second paper towel into the trash and moved over to his pile of clothes. Looking down on the stack, disheveled from where he had hurriedly set them down, he smiled to himself.

Don’t fuck this up, man.

With a smirk, Rus picked up his jeans and unfurled them, shaking them out.

She’s kind… I know at least that much about her.

Holding his pants by the hem, he bent forward to step into the legs, one after the other.

And not in the fake, say ‘good morning’ with a smile as she passes you in the hall kind of way. But in the, ‘I’ll share my tiny little bed with your lanky ass and even cook you breakfast and wash your clothes for you in the morning’ kind of way.

And she’s funny. Not like, ‘Aw, that’s cute’ funny. But, y’know, legit witty. She busts balls like ‘one of the guys’...

Hitching his jeans up around his waist, he fastened the button and worked the zipper closed.

…and she’s interesting, in a way that I’m not sure I could ever get bored with. We could spend an entire week together, and I’m not sure we’d ever repeat the same conversation.

Rus frowned.

Well, maybe she’d never run out of new things to talk about. Your boring ass is tapped out after hour two, tops. Music, sports… hey, have you heard they make a dildo molded after me?

He snickered as he bent down to retrieve his shirt.

And she’s got a great smile, too. And laugh. And she’s not a giggler, so you know if you hear it, you’ve said something actually funny.

He pulled his shirt on, one arm after the other, gathering it closed at the front, and from the bottom up, began snapping the little faux-mother-of-pearl buttons closed one by one.

You’d think the woman’s shit don’t stink, to hear me describe her. But maybe that’s what it’s all about, finding ‘your someone’. Not that the ‘bads’ are outweighed by the ‘goods’, but more like, the ‘bads’ aren’t actually flaws at all, at least to you.

Picking up his socks, he moved into the bedroom to retrieve his shoes. The shower grew louder as he drew closer, and he paused a moment to just listen, for the possibility that she was a shower-singer or hummer. He heard no such sounds, though, just the steady hiss of water, and so he moved away before she could pop through the door and catch him ear-peeping.

Back in the ‘main’ room, he settled down into the comfier of the two bean bag chairs once more, pulling his socks and shoes on, letting that last thought ruminate in his head for a bit.

 

[Talon]

She’d spent longer in the bathroom than he’d expected, but not so long that he grew concerned enough to check on her. Maybe she was just one of those types who liked to linger in the warmth for a while. It wasn’t that things had grown awkward, post-nut…

… right?

He was still half-lost in thought, thumbs scrolling aimlessly across his phone screen, when the soft click of curtain beads pulled his attention back toward the bedroom doorway. He popped up out of the chair, being fully dressed now, head to toe, for the first time since the evening prior, turning around to face her as he did so.

Cute… he thought, with a quick once over. She was wearing clothes that would have been baggy even on him, and on her, the effect was obfuscating enough that the lines of her slender frame were unidentifiable. He didn’t recognize it for what it was, but rather, just thought she was leaning further into the comfort over style thing. If anything, that she felt so comfortable around him was something of a compliment, really.

The energy didn’t match the vibe of the clothes, however, and for an awkward moment, it was like all of the air had suddenly been sucked out of the room.

“So…”

Rus frowned, for his part unsure of what to say to cut through the tension, finally settling for busying himself with tucking his phone into his back pocket before clutching his hands together in front of him, over his crotch. It was less of a ‘don’t fuck with me’ club bouncer pose and more of a ‘please don’t nail me in the nuts with a dodgeball’ defensive posture.

“Fuck. I didn’t ask if you were seeing someone. Goddamn IT, Cassandra,”

Rus’ eyebrows were the most clear indicator of his shock, slowly creeping up his forehead. He’d been prepared to hear about how he’d fucked something up- what he had no clue, but she was putting off that species of energy- and before he could offer an answer, he’d had to swallow to wet a throat that had suddenly gone dry. She continued.

His eyebrows raised even further, eyes widening, as she mentioned having taken an edible.

Rus was pretty much as square as they come when it came to ‘recreational’ drugs. He’d smoked a joint of what was purported to be weed back in his college days, post all the sports-related drug testing, but either his natural tolerance was incredibly high or the stuff he’d been given was bunk, because he’d not felt anything beyond a bit of drowsiness and a wicked case of dry mouth. Cocaine was not uncommon to see on porn sets, but in truth, the thought of doing the harder stuff scared him, and he was the type to not even want to be around when others were partaking.

“This is a lot. I know this is a lot. It was easier when we were pros, you know?”

Rus scoffed, exhaling in a heavy sigh, the corner of his mouth twisting into a humorless grin. “For sure, it was. Someone calls ‘scene’, we just shake hands and go our separate ways. No expectation of something more…”

“And I’m not, for the record…” He forced a deeper smile. “...y’know, seeing anyone. Or…” His eyebrows perked up. “... well, I wasn’t. Y’know…” He laughed awkwardly. “...what I mean to say is, you’re not barking up someone else's tree. You’re good…” He took a cautious step closer to her, hands still clasped before him, careful to judge by her body language if the proximity was welcomed. “... and we’re good. Like, with everything. I think it makes perfect sense that this…” he gestured between them. “... us, y’know, that the suddenness of everything has put you on your back foot. We’re not strangers, but you don’t really know me, and that’s totally fair. I’m in your safe space…” said without a hint of sarcasm. “... and I think it’s only natural that, after everything that happened to you, you be extra cautious as to whom you open yourself up to.”

He nodded, his smile gradually losing that fake quality and growing warmer, more genuine. “I mean, it was cool as hell of you to let me crash here last night, and to take care of me this morning. It meant a lot… means a lot. But it’s ok that we tap the brakes a bit, too, and let things evolve a little more naturally rather than try to force a dynamic that hasn’t been earned.”

Reaching behind him, he fished in his back pocket for his wallet. “That you take some time to yourself to figure things out, I mean, that sounds healthy, honestly.” He laughed. “Really… like, I’m not going anywhere, you know? That you have trauma you have to work through doesn’t scare me off, it doesn’t change a thing for me, in terms of wanting to see where this thing between us goes.” Retrieving his wallet, a dark brown leather bifold, obviously well worn-in, he worked it open to fish through the inner fold. Not too thick, and much like the rest of the man, it seemed like he kept it well-organized. “If in the end, we decide we work better as friends, I’m open to that, too…” Retrieving a card from the wallet, he snapped it closed. “... but, I would very much enjoy the opportunity to explore that ‘more than’ option, you know?”

It felt like the right thing for him to be the one to leave of his own accord, rather than make her come out and say it. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t want to, he wanted to spend the rest of the day here, with her. Not for sex-that animal side of his brain had been well satisfied- but just to be in her presence, if nothing else. But he could read the writing on the wall, and if his presence was going to make her uncomfortable, it was the last thing he wanted to try to force on her.

Taking a few steps closer, he leaned forward with an outstretched arm to place the card on the countertop beside her. It was a business card for his sister’s shop; colorful, with shades of pink and purple, his sister’s name in the center, his below, in smaller print, with the title of ‘Manager’ listed under it.

“I’m there most days…” He gestured with a nudge of his chin to the card. “... y’know, if you happen to be in the neighborhood and just want to drop in and say hello…”

Rus hoped that was a strong enough signal that he wanted to see her again, without being too forceful about it. A phone number he could block, text messages he could ignore, but here, he was giving her the third option of finding him in person, should she want to take it.

“But, uh…” He licked his lips nervously. “...I think I’m gonna head out, yeah?” A jerk of his head back towards the exit. “... thanks again, y’know…” He gestured down at himself. “... for the clean clothes. Saved me from having to walk out of here in a towel or somethin’...” He stood still, looking around a bit, unsure of exactly how to terminate contact. Hug? Kiss? More than a handshake, surely, or a simple wave and a curt nod.

Fuck it.

He took another step closer, opening his arms wide, smiling. “Can I get a hug for the road?”

You fuckin’ dork…

 

[Apollo Wilde]

I wish these things kicked in faster, or that I’d been drinking.

Something, anything, to take the onus off of her in the moment. She was flipping quicker than IHOP - one moment this, the next that, in-between all of the other fluff and foolishness that was running round in her head.

He’s going to think I’m insane.

But is that such a bad thing, though?

Well, he hadn’t run screaming for the door -yet- so that was something. Her breathing was starting to even out (a good thing), and her heart was lulling along just fine instead of a mile a minute. All signs were on the up and up, but it was a far cry from being out of the anxiety woods. At least she was in her own place; far easier to ground herself with familiar sights, sounds, and smells.

And the fact that the top of her hair was wet and was steadily sending ice drops down the back of her neck.

“Oh. Well, that’s good. Grood, even. You know, great and good mashed up together,” she held out her hands, then closed the space between them, folding an invisible sheet. “That you’re not seeing anyone. I mean..all of this is sort of hard enough to deal with, and then throw in helping you cheat, just, I mean, massive yikes. Universe sized yikes. Yikes on bikes disappearing into the boundless black yikes.”

He was talking. That was good. He was even cautiously approaching, like trying to lure away a fawn that had ambled too close to a busy road.

Man, what’s it like being so well-adjusted?

She simply took time to look at him. Really just look at him, all of the romanticism washed away. He was so different from her circle of friends - none of which she’d call ‘healthy’, but she was hardly the one to throw stones - and it was…calming, but yet…waiting for the other shoe to drop. For a split second, perceived differences between them, their lives, opened up in a bottomless chasm at her feet. It might be easy to jump over, but she could also fall into oblivion, forever floundering to get back to that ideal of ‘normal.’

She closed her eyes; rubbed them. No. I’ve done too much work to accept who I am, warts and all. I am making a lot of assumptions - and what makes it hard to discredit is that making some of those assumptions are based on the idea of self-preservation. You acted without thinking, and now you’re flogging yourself for doing that, instead of thinking how to fix this.

“…I can’t harp on the stalker forever,” a little defeated, as if she was caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Trying to figure out how much she was ‘traumatized’ by the stalker was a constant balancing act. Many took it too lightly; stalkers were hardly anything - it was just a guy that really liked you and look how you treated him, heartless, and not like you’re one to talk: your pussy is all over the internet for those to see. And then, oh my god, you had a stalker, someone who knew every intimate detail about your life: where you lived, what you got on an average grocery run, your favorite flavor of ice cream. Who wrote out 102 journals - yes, 102, at last count - about you: an entry every day for multiple years. How do you even exist knowing that someone is still out there that did that? Surely you’re taking it too lightly - and so on and so on, perpetually caught between the middle and not really sure how to move on with her life.


“But I can’t act like it didn’t happen, either. Or that it didn’t drastically change my life for the worst. Or the fact that..”

That I haven’t built any close relationships outside of work since I’ve been here. The friends that I have are far away. Not in the same city, at the very least. I severed all of those connections and thought I could be fine.

“Anyway.” It was comical, how quickly she cut herself off. Only that deep, haunted sense of dread remained on her face, even as her mouth tried to remember how to smile. It fumbled, and she didn’t bother to try and pick it up again. Instead, she focused on the card he put on her counter. It was barely there a second before she was picking it up, looking it over. A small upward quirk of the mouth now - a true smile trying to find its footing. She let it speak for her - a sure, I’ll drop by, without even pretending to think about it.

A small, smothered laugh, halfway sardonic, halfway genuine. “I don’t think walks of shame work the same way for men. And you were my guest, after all. My mom would be spinning in her grave if I let you leave here any other way - and, sure.”

A tentative step forward. A pause as she took a deep breath, then, taking another step, she was in his arms. Shades of desperation in how she flat out clung to him, like she’d waded into water suddenly too deep and he was the only thing keeping her afloat. But as quickly as it’d come over here, it was gone, and she was withdrawing again.

“Thanks, Rus.” Said softly, as she found the ghost of a full smile again. “Now get out so I can get high and catastrophize in peace.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

It wasn’t that she didn’t know where the flower shop was. Well, she didn’t at first, but a quick internet search (it wasn’t ‘stalking’; it was being informed, and something that she owed herself after all) showed her location - and oh, hey, she drove past it every once in a while. She'd never given it any thought - it looked cute, but also expensive.

What a small world - a city this big, and everything that's happened recently has been within the same 5 mile radius.

He’d said he’d be around. And she’d have to take him at his word. And…she had things to do. Really. There were her classes, figuring out her finances (a never-ending task), and making therapy appointments because wow that had been a lot and she needed to get it off her chest.

And on top of that - though her therapist, Dr. James, had suggested that maybe she not do the thing that she had in mind out of concern for her falling back into patterns to buy her friends, but this really was a part of her job. Ceramics teachers had to make ceramics. And she was hoping, maybe, to get a few pieces in an a farmer’s market, in an art show. Something to help make a few more bucks, and also to further whatever career this was shaping out to be.

So there was ‘art’ ceramics and ‘fun’ ceramics. So, you know, if she ended up making a few pieces, or maybe a piece, with a particular person in mind, obviously it was an inspired thing, and should, probably, work its way back into the hands of the person who inspired it. Art rules: she didn't make them - she just followed them.

After classes, she took advantage of the facilities to work. She was pretty sure that working on outside projects wasn’t violating her contract with the school, and, if anything, if her art was picked up by a gallery, that would mean more prestige for the school - and, hell, if she allowed herself to really dream big, maybe a more lucrative job offer from a big college. Job stability - and maybe, actually, discovering that ceramics might be her next big thing after performance art.

It was nice, at least, not to be a visible face anymore. She had to admit to that.

Hours became days, days became weeks. And she kept working, clay caked on her hands, smudged occasionally across her face as she forgot what she was doing and had a random itch.

The card, a bit beat up by now, resided in her own wallet. A constant reminder, string wrapped around a finger, but it was never quite the right time. Never seemed to be, really. And…that wasn’t entirely terrible, either. He hadn’t reached out either. And that was fine, too. Not in a passive-aggressive way, but a ‘he’s dealing with a lot, you’re dealing with a lot’ way. Mature adult way.

Mature adult - right.

The nights went - peaceful, filled with music and a steadily creeping sense of calm with it. Ceramics were something that she’d long considered a ‘back pocket’ skill - something she could do, but never really sat and focused on. As a part of her therapy, she’d tried working with her hands again - something, anything, to help the anxiety. And though some of it was tedious, slow going - things that made her want to quit and try to fall back on something else that was more familiar hahahaha, what, resurrect Sister Sunshine? Girl, please but even when she felt that the strongest, something would lure her back in. A particularly vivid hue of glaze, or the perfection of a vase coming together on the wheel. Little things. Always, always, the little things.

Thursday in the middle of the third week, as she sat lazily sucking down the last bit of almond jelly in her bubble tea, she watched the kiln. This would be the last pass. Once it was cooled, that was it. It was a surreal feeling - she’d put so much into this, and yet, it had come as natural as walking, breathing. Opened up that world, sparked some optimism back into her soul. She could truly start over. And with the added benefit of her actual name. Being able to carve ‘C.H.’ in a rolling script on the bottom of each item….it was immeasurably wonderful. Something she didn’t know she needed.

I hope he likes it.










She’d taken a half-day on Friday for a few reasons - one, she had to shop around her finished pieces (fingers crossed that the Fern Gallery, one of the most well-to-do in the area, would take her submissions. It was a massive swing for an amateur artist such as herself, but hey, hopefully it showed gumption), and, two, she had a delivery to make.

Fern Gallery had been…interesting. Not in a bad way, but in a ‘they’re clearly hedging their bets’ way. They hadn’t flat out told her ‘no’, but there wasn’t a sure ‘yes’, either. A ‘we’ll think about it’ that seemed optimistic enough to warrant a small treat (she was an adult just existing was enough for the occasional small treat) - and with said treat in hand, she parked outside of the flower shop. Turned off her car -a well worn 2005 Toyota Corolla in an off-color shade of teal that she had never stopped hating, but it was in her price range, so - waited to hear for that rattling growl that meant it was for sure turned off and everything settled into place. Then she sat back, sucking hard on the straw. Shook the cup in her hand a few times; it was heavy enough to indicate that there was still quite a bit of custard left, even if she had most of the root beer it was supposed to be submerged in.

Stared at the cracks in the steering wheel, a tell-tale of the car’s age - if the weird bird-like tweets of the struts weren’t a dead giveaway. She’d need to replace those soon. Glanced over at the medium box in the driver’s seat, wrapped in the local free paper. It was a strange mix of advertisements for guns, cabarets, and upcoming movies - comforting in its banality.

Okay. I can do this.

Three weeks. But who was counting? It’s fine. Maybe he’d have a break down in front of her and they’d be even.

“All right,” huffed as she got out of the car, root beer float cradled in one hand as she reached across to grab the box with the other. Closing the car door with her butt, she took in another deep breath, hoisted the box up higher in her hand, and took a big swig of her float.

The door to the flower shop opened with a quiet chime. Rather than announce herself further, she took the opportunity to look around. The air was cool, slightly humid, with that fresh green smell of earth and rain and cut stems. Black and white diamond tile covered the floor - free from dirt or fallen leaves. Wooden tables set up on either side of the entrance boasted little knick-knacks - hand creams with names in French, candles, small pots, magnets. Past the little table on her right was a wall of shelves - and -

“Oh wow,” she exclaimed out loud, craning her head upwards. Hanging from the ceiling were bunches of dried flowers: fragrant lavender, roses, baby’s breath, pink aster, squash flower - the once vibrant colors tainted with sepia, but no less beautiful.

She must’ve looked like she just fell off the turnip truck, straw hanging out of her slightly agape mouth, head craned upwards to just take in the flowers up there, paying no mind to the rows of succulents, houseplants, and cut flowers that seemed bursting from every available space. The place was like heaven.

“How have I not come in here before…?”

 

[Talon]

Not contacting her had been hardest in those first few days.

Well, the first few nights, more like. His days were plenty busy—shuttling Olivia to school in the morning, working at the shop—but the nights were, well…

They were lonely.

It was tough not to type out a little forget-me-not. “Hey, hope you’re feeling better.” — that sort of thing. Just something to let her know he was thinking of her. Problem was, it wasn’t exactly like dropping a note in the mail, as texts could be responded to in real time. It would put an expectation on her to answer, and even though he was cool with a bit of space, as he’d said, he actually would be kinda hurt if she didn’t reply. Hence, it was better for all parties involved that he not message at all.

Right?

And she didn’t either, which to him only further validated his line of thinking.

Still, as premature or needy as it might be, he missed her.

In an effort to transmute negative energy into positive, he’d come up with the idea a few days in to sit down and jot down a few lines every night. Nothing too sappy—just little one-line entries. Something he could show her when they eventually met up again to prove he’d been thinking of her the whole time.

Not if, but when. Rus wasn’t especially optimistic or pessimistic, though if forced to come down on one side or the other, he usually leaned more towards the latter. But something about how they’d ended it, while not on the highest of notes, there was still something there that gave him hope. He couldn’t believe that whatever force had brought her back into his life-God, fate, chance, a winged toddler with a bow and arrow- would stop at a one-night stand.

The first hurdle was finding a writing implement. He had plenty at the shop, but at home, it was like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. He still wasn’t fully unpacked, and he knew that somewhere in the cluster of cardboard boxes stacked against his living room wall was the cup he’d kept on his computer desk at his last place-an old coffee mug with the logo of his college basketball team on it- which served as the pen and pencil corral.

Thankfully, before having to resort to unpacking, his search through the kitchen ‘junk’ drawer proved fruitful. Nestled amongst the appliance manuals, half-drained batteries and months-old unopened mail, he found a pen. A fat hunk of plastic, with an advertisement printed on the side of it for some ‘Restripol’. A pharmaceutical, apparently, likely something he’d picked up on a doctor’s visit with his sister.

Getting it to write took some doing- pressing, licking the tip, scribbling on a bit of scratch paper from the drawer- and once he finally had, with a frown, he noted it was blue ink.

“Beggars can’t be choosers…”

Triumphant in his quest for a pen, complete with a few blank sheets of clean, white printer paper he’d found earlier in the search, he stood at the kitchen counter, poised to begin, tapping the ‘clicker’ on the top of the pen against the counter as if it were a drumstick.

“Hmmm…” Rus mused out loud.

Writing had never been his strength. He’d done well in school—well enough, at least—but his best writing had always been in fulfillment of an assigned task. Coming up with something on his own—‘creative writing,’ if you will—was where the cracks in his armor started showing

“Ahhh…” His features lit up as, with a pleased grin, he wrote out the date in the upper left corner of the paper. “Gotta start somewhere…” he mumbled to himself.

Keeping the momentum going, he wrote the first thing that came to mind just below.

Roses are red, violets are blue…

“Ugh… no.” He scratched out the line with such violence that it left an impression on the sheet of paper beneath the one he’d written it on. Going a step further, he wadded up the sheet into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder as if to banish it from sight.

Sucking in a deep breath, centering himself, he started fresh, scratching the date out on the top left corner of a fresh page.

What was the line? KISS… ‘Keep It Simple, Stupid’... doesn’t need to be poetic, or epic, or even good. It’s about the thought, the intent, right?

Tap, tap, tappity-tap-tap. The drumming of hesitation.

Lifting his pen, he scribbled-

Thinking of you–

He paused, then added–

–, Cas

Pen hovering over the ‘s’ at the end of her name, he considered adding an exclamation point.

Nah, too fake, he thought, shaking his head.

He stood up straight, clipped the pen to the stack, and looked around for a place to stash it. He settled on the top of the fridge as an ideal spot to store them. There were a few twelve-packs of sparkling water stored up there, but they left enough space that he could position the papers flat so that he was assured they wouldn’t slide off to be lost behind the refrigerator for the rest of time.

It became a kind of ritual: every night before bed, after the dust of a busy day had settled. Often dripping wet from the shower—evidenced by the telltale spots on the page where stray droplets had fallen—towel still wrapped around his waist, he’d write a line or two.

His little message in a bottle.

Sometimes sweet:
I miss the smell of your shampoo.

Other times silly:
What’s up, chicken butt?

Occasionally romantic:
Saw the most gorgeous rose bloom in the shipment we got in today. Not normally a ‘rose guy,’ but it totally made me think of you. I mean, blue ribbon winning, just perfect in all dimensions. Purple. Slightly sweet-smelling. Pricked my thumb on one of its thorns, I was in such a rush to pick it up and smell it. Took a pic of it to show you later.

And sometimes, well… horny. But still with his own unique brand of silliness:
I miss the way your butt looks drowning in those quadruple-XL sweats.

Even if he never showed her the messages, the exercise helped him pass the days. More than that, it reminded him that this thing between them was about more than just the physical. Sure, their encounter had revived his libido. More than once, he woke up in the morning with a raging hard-on—the kind of thing where he was compelled to just lie there, half-awake, steeping in it. In the raw desire to be touched.

But if that was all it was, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have been able to keep it going—this nightly ritual. He wasn’t some recently deflowered virgin, assigning too much meaning to sex just because it happened.

No.
What he missed most, above all, was her.
Not an object of pleasure.
But a living, breathing person.

He’d even started exercising again. Nothing serious—a walk around the apartment complex after work, a few sets of push-ups and sit-ups before bed. It was more about getting his heart rate up than trying to get ‘back in shape.’

And then there was the ‘manscaping’.

With the possibility that someone might be seeing him naked again, he wanted to look good. Not to meet Cassandra’s expectations—he wasn’t sure what her preference even was—but his own. Why that meant a return to the “bare” look, he couldn’t exactly say. It was probably something ingrained during his time in porn. He just felt he looked better bare. And honestly, it felt good. Familiar.

He could handle his private parts just fine. But for his chest and back, he enlisted Maggie’s help.

 

[Talon]

“Still totally jealous of your tub…” Maggie remarked, standing beside him in front of the bathroom vanity as he laid out the items they would use to trim his body hair.

Rus, shirtless, wearing only a pair of athletic shorts, was busy rifling through the drawers beneath the counter, on the hunt for a package of disposable razors he knew to be stashed away somewhere. His only response was a grunt of acknowledgement.

“Sex was that good, huh?” She quipped, shooting him a playful sideways glance.

Rus frowned, confused, as if only having half heard her, pausing his search long enough to look up, glancing at her through her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “What?”

Her grin only deepened. “The sex.”

“What about it?”

Maggie scoffed, shaking her head. “You’ve been tuned out for the past few weeks. Walking around with your big dumb head in the clouds.”

Rus smirked, shaking his head. “Nah… just busy, lately…” He returned his attention to his search. “... ’s all.”

“Mmm-hmmm…” Maggie reached out, taking the opportunity to tweak his nipple between two fingers as his guard was down.

Rus jerked upright, swatting her hand away before crossing an arm over his chest protectively. “Tsss.. Jesus…”

The end of her tongue poked out the corner of her mouth teasingly as she turned away, her attention drawn back towards the tub as she gazed longingly. Oversized, one of those big, round ‘garden’ variety, it was not so large that Rus could fully stretch his legs out in, but for someone of Maggie's size, she could nearly swim in it.

“You’re gonna have to let me come over and use this when you’re out sometime…”

Rus, still rubbing his tender nipple with one hand while the other rifled through the drawers, shrugged. “Sure thing… you’re welcome to whenever.”

“Yeah… you gotta be out, though. Like out-out. Preferably for the night…”

Rus scoffed, laughing through his nose. “Why? Worried I’m going to try and peep?”

Maggie, frowning, turned back towards him and nudged him in the side with an elbow. “It’s not peeping I’m worried about. More like I can’t get in the ‘zone’ knowing your big dumb ears are within range. I’m loud…”

Rus groaned. “Christ… are you talking about jackin’ off in here, or somethin’?”

Maggie swatted his arm with the back of her hand. “‘Jilling’ off, thank you very much. No ‘Jacks’ will be invited. Only Robert.”

Robert. Her vibrator. Named after that actor from those shitty Vampire movies. Supposedly, quote, “the only guy pretty enough to put frosting on her cupcake”.

Rus just shook his head in response, the smile on his face betraying his attempt to display serious disapproval.

“So… like… what date can I circle on my calendar, then?” Maggie asked.

It was an innocuous enough question, maybe a little probing, but not crazy. When could he expect to see her again? At what point was the onus put on him to reach out? What was a fair measure of how much ‘space’ he had given her? No contact might seem respectful at first, but after enough time, did it not become disrespectful not to be concerned with how she was coping, emotionally?

Rus, having found what he was looking for–at least regarding the razors–straightened, growing more serious suddenly, fixing her through the mirror with a thoughtful frown, turning the package over in his hands with nervous energy. “I don’t know Mags…”

Maggie, as empathetic as ever, aware of just when to stop the teasing, nodded curtly, reaching out to place a sympathetic hand on the back of his shoulder. “Let’s get you shaved down, big guy.”


They spent the rest of the evening on the couch in front of the TV. Maggie had brought along the supplies to whip up something for dinner–a dish she called ‘Korean soft tacos’, which, despite how weird the fusion sounded, was legit good– and afterwards, had curled up beside him with her bare feet in his lap. Rus hadn’t asked, and she hadn’t told, but it’s like she could feel he needed a good cuddle. Nothing too intimate, just a subtle reminder that he wasn’t alone.




That Friday had started as uneventfully as any other. He picked up Olivia in the morning for school and popped upstairs to give his sister a quick kiss on the forehead. Her recovery had continued trending positive—she was starting to put back on some weight, especially in the face. Good feels.

Not so much from Olivia, though. Last week, they’d had another blow-up over a school project she’d decided not to do, so the silent treatment was still very much in effect for the entire ride to school.

He’d also been laying off the cigarettes recently, switching to a combination of Zyn and nicotine gum to satisfy the cravings. He still had a couple of packs in reserve, but was limiting himself to two a day: one in the morning, and one before bed at night. Cassandra wasn’t so much the cause for the change as she was the spark- he’d been wanting to quit for a while, and, stuck in the day-to-day cycle of ‘normal’ life, just needed that kick in the ass to get started. It was gross, after all, and he was always self-conscious about how he smelled after he had smoked. Not to mention the health effects.


When Cassandra walked into the shop, Rus was in his usual spot in the back, while the shop’s lone full-time employee, Libby, held down the front.

Libby looked to be somewhere in her mid-40s to early 50s. Average height, plump in the hip and bust, matronly in her manner of dress. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a bun at the back of her head, and she wore thick, dark-rimmed glasses that gave her a distinct school-librarian vibe. Today, she was dressed in a flowing, ankle-length skirt full of bright colors and a sleeveless button-up denim top.

She turned from the arrangement table behind the counter as the little bell above the door jingled, announcing a customer. Wiping her hands on the green half-apron tied around her waist, she greeted Cassandra with a warm smile.

“Good mornin’, and welcome in! Anything in particular I can do you for, miss? Or just browsing?”

Her accent was thickly Texan, her tone warm and syrupy-sweet.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Oh, Jesus,” Cassandra started, nearly dropping her drink and her present. Luckily, she managed to recover both, turning to give the disembodied her voice her full attention. She’d still been staring up at the dried flowers hanging from the ceiling, trying to suss out which was which. She’d never been too good with flowers outside of the staples - roses, lilies, carnations, whatever they had at the grocery store - and it had turned into a sort of game.

“I, uh, yeah,” she stammered, taking a long, somewhat obnoxious suck of her straw. “I just had something for Rus, I mean, Rustin. If he’s not here, that’s cool, I can leave it. Put a sticky note or somethin’ on it, or tell him it’s from Cass.”

She managed a smile, the shaky shy thing that was her “staple” when meeting someone new. It gave her a bashful, little girl air - something that she in part hated but was also very aware of how helpful it could be in setting people at ease. Sure, let them think that she was shy, soft-spoken, maybe a little timid. Joke would be on them.

In contrast to the chill Santa-Fe old money vibes she was getting from the woman, Cassandra looked like she’d crawled out of a grunge closet by way of 1990s hip-hop. In deference to the rapidly warming (but still flukey weather), she was in baggy jeans that hung off of the line of her hips, held up by the suggestion of a belt to puddle around the toes scuffed and well-worn Doc Martens. Her top was an equally baggy sleeveless basket ball jersey, bright gold and purple, but advertising “Dadaism” as the “team” on the front. In the brief moment that her back was to the cashier, the back of the jersey would sport a toilet rather than a number, beneath the name “Duchamp.” A high brow snooty art joke that perhaps Duchamp himself might’ve been amused by the absurdity of it all, but he was dead, so. Beneath it was a smaller, more form fitting purple tank top, and a paint splattered, holes burned into it well worn green and black flannel over-shirt was tied around her waist, the only thing hinting at her figure.

She was clean-faced as always, her curls held back by a rolled up black bandana serving as a headband, her septum piercing bright silver. “This is a really neat little shop, by the way. I’ve driven past it a million times and never thought to come in,” a bit more thoughtful now, as she tried to wrench her attention back to the various gewgaws on the shelves. They stared back at her, emotionless.

Juggling her cup and the package, she attempted to pick up a large chunk of amethyst - then decided against it. “Actually, lemme set this down,” shifting things in her arms again, she inched closer to the cashier’s desk before setting it down carefully on the counter. “It’s fragile, so, y’know, please don’t shake it or drop it.” With her arms a bit more free, she took another slurp from her cup, rattled it in her hands to mix up the last bits. Something to do with her hands, at least. “But, yeah. Tell him it’s from Cass,” followed with another small grin.

Maybe it was good luck that she wouldn’t actually have to see him. It’d make it less awkward, anyway. Dropping this off could be an invitation, or a sorry for being cuckoo bananas and no it was absolutely not that because she was going to give herself grace. It was not crazy to be suddenly freaked out and then have to process things. She had a stalker, for Christ’s sake, and though it was usually written off as a joke, the affect it’d had on her life was permanent, even if she hated saying that. She would forever be changed by it - but she couldn’t let it dictate her life, either.

Most of what she’d thought had gone into one of her own journals. Row after row of her neat hand-writing, dates in varying shades of pink, as she wrote out those fears. Looping them back always with a “Yes, but,” or “Why, though,” or “Where’s your evidence” - it helped strengthen what she was doing in therapy as well as break her out of some particularly nasty thought loops. Rus had been a familiar face in a city that was close and a stranger, and it was only natural that she would’ve gravitated towards him. There was something real in that, and she wouldn’t allow herself to hand wave it away as much as she’d wanted to in her haste to embrace her folly. She’d moved too fast - and that was fine. She would also have to admit that she didn’t really know how ‘dating’ and companionship was done; not after being alone (and comfortable with it, for the most part) for so long. It was a glaring gap in her knowledge pool, and one that typically didn’t bother her - not until it was spilled out like this and it reoccurred to her that A. maybe she wasn’t quite as normal as she thought, and B. that in all of that time she’d spent as Sister Sunshine, maybe she hadn’t learned as much as she thought she had. It’d been about sex and exploration then - there had been room for deeper questions, but you couldn’t really show or demonstrate the passage of time in human relationships in quite the same way.

Or, really, maybe she hadn’t been mature enough at the time to figure it out - sex still being that giant mystery of why people chased it so much, made such a big deal out of it when it was so, so small on the grand scheme of things. Maybe it was as simple as keeping the species going - which was something that she wasn’t really so sure she agreed with.

It was all explored in those pages, the place where she could comfortably be herself, since attempts at making friends since she moved had been slow going. She also had to admit that maybe she hadn’t put that much effort into it; baby steps as an excuse for not actually doing anything. Rus could be something good, something really good, if she let him. And that was the hard part - that leap of faith, the trust in her gut that had attracted her to him all those years ago.

I probably shouldn’t leave without buying something.

Her eyes fell on that chunk of amethyst again. Though she knew plenty of crystal and star chart girls, she was a sucker for pretty, glittery rocks. Like a raven, really.

Walking back to it, she picked it up and cradled it in her palm. It fit perfectly, the violet white of the tops of the rock deepening into a purple so deep that it was like ancient wine. “Actually, how much is this?” She held it up - there wasn’t a price tag to mar the surface. Smart move, really - and knowing herself, she’d probably be convinced to buy it even if it was stupid expensive because she’d fucked up and picked it up to begin with in the first place. But…as she turned it over in her hands, it seemed to speak to her. In those multi-faceted spires, there was inspiration. “I don’t see a price tag on it.”

 

[Talon]

Libby, who had begun reaching for the package Cassandra had set on the counter, paused as Cassandra spoke, craning her neck up as if it would help her see over a counter she already stood a good foot and a half above. Her eyes lit up when she noticed which stone Cassandra had asked about.

“Oh! I just love that color! That‘s my grand-baby’s birthstone.” Her smile beamed with pride as she gestured at Cassandra with a brightly tipped finger as if she had correctly answered a question right on the money.

“That one there’s fourteen dollars, hun. And you can choose—” She leaned over the counter, nails rhythmically tapping a wooden display nestled beside the till, stacked with little spools of twine, ribbon, and blank gift cards themed after a range of traditional ‘gift giving’ occasions—“any card and string to dress it up with if it’s a gift. Complimentry, of course.”

Libby started to take the package, thought better of it, and instead gave Cassandra a head-tilted once-over. Judging by how her smile deepened, she’d decided she liked the cut of Cassandra’s jib.

“Y’know what, hun—” She flicked a glance back up at the wall clock mounted behind the counter. “--why don’t I just pop in the back and grab Rus...” She turned her gaze back to Cassandra. “... it’s no bother, I think he’s just headed off to lunch. And you…”—she gave a wink, as if the two of them were conspiring together and that was the agreed-upon signal–”...seem like someone he’d want to thank in person.”

The clack of heeled boots trailed behind her as she turned to move off towards the door that led to the back of the shop, calling out over her shoulder as she pushed it open.

“Feel free to browse as you like, darlin’. I’ll just be a sec…”

Before Cassandra could offer protest, if she had any, the free-swinging door to the back of the shop was already gliding shut behind her.


Rus, hunched over his keyboard, frowning at his monitor as he analyzed his next move in what seemed to be a nail-biter of a Solitaire match, was so tuned out that he’d missed the sound of the hallway door opening.

He wasn’t just slacking off, though. It was one of those fifteen-minutes-until-lunch sorta deals—no sense in starting a task he couldn’t finish.

And he was a sucker for a good game of Solitaire.

Knock-knock

Rus gave a start, his chair letting out a screech of protest as he sat back in it, spinning around to face the doorway beside him that Libby had stuck her head into. “Jesus, Libby… you startled me…”

Libby tsked, frowning playfully, though she didn’t admonish him, as if she were confident he knew full well what her correction would be. “Mr. Rus… someone’s here to see you.”

Rus cleared his throat, frowning, brushing a hand down the front of his shirt. “Oh?” He looked back over at his monitor. “Tell me it’s not that funeral home up the street again. I told them last time that we’ve already offered them all the discount we can afford…”

“No, sir…” Libby shook her head with a dismissive wave of her hand. “... ‘s a young lady by the name of Cass. Came in to drop somethin’ off for you…”

Rus’ eyebrows perked up as he turned his head back towards her. “Cass?”

Libby repeated it, arms crossing under her bosom. “Cass.” She leaned her shoulder against the inside of the doorframe, lips pressed together in a smirk. “She’s a cutie… you two…?”

Rus scrubbed a hand over his face, eyes widening as he blew out a gust of air. “Good question…” he scoffed, whispering so low it was meant for only his ears. “...we, uh…” He sucked air through his teeth. “... we’re old colleagues.”

Libby was–Rus hoped, at least– still completely in the dark as to his former ‘profession’.

“Mhmmm…” Libby mused, looking at him out of the corner of her eye as if attempting to decipher truth from lie. She was almost more Jessica’s friend than she was Rus’ subordinate, though she did know how and when to straddle that line best so as not to be overly annoying to deal with at work. Still, ‘big sister’ was very much the nature of her energy, despite her being old enough to be his Mother.

“Well…” Deciding she wasn’t going to get anything further out of him on the subject, she leaned away from the wall. “... I think I’ll take my five-minute break now, before you head out for lunch. Give you two…” A pregnant pause. “...‘old colleagues’...” Her smirk deepened. “... a chance to catch up. Let me know before you head out, hun.” She drummed her nails rhythmically against the doorway a few times, lingering a moment longer, eyebrows raised, smile knowing, before she moved off into the back.

Rus rolled the chair back as if to stand, hands on his knees, but hesitated a moment before rising. He felt his heart racing, like back in his High School glory days, lining up for a big shot with the game on the line. Not nervousness, not exactly, something more akin to excitement. Anticipation. The corners of his lips curled up as he thought about what he’d written in his ‘journal’ the night before: You’ll probably never read this, because I’ll probably never show it to you… But I miss you, Cass.

The journal had remained still a thing more for him than intended for her. A way to express himself, of things he wanted to say that he wasn’t comfortable even discussing with Maggie. She’d push him too hard if she knew how he felt. With good intentions, but she was so desperate for him to be happy, she’d seize on the first opportunity. No. This was tender. Fragile. A little sprout that had just peeked out from the soil. It needed patience, a little sunlight, a little water, and time. He didn’t know what flowers it would eventually bloom, if any at all.

But he couldn’t deny being curious.

Standing, he eyed his somewhat distorted reflection in the “Best Neighborhood Business: 2022” mirror-like plaque on the wall behind him; fluffing his hair a bit, making sure he had no goop in the corner of his eye, practicing what he thought was a convincing “I’m genuinely excited to see you, but not so excited that it’s weird” smile before brushing off the front of his shirt and moving out into the hall.



‘Easy listening’ music was piped into the space from speakers mounted up by the ceiling in each corner of the rectangular layout of the shop interior. Something reminiscent of Kenny G, at such a low volume that one could easily hold a conversation without raising their voice, but enough to fill the hush and overpower the hum of the coolers set against the left wall past the hanging racks of dried herbs and flowers.

Along the back, behind the counter, in addition to various advertisements for other local shops, there was the customary good luck token of all small businesses–the framed ‘first’ dollar– in addition to the required items such as a copy of the business license and Better Business Bureau rating. Above that, a framed photo of the ribbon-cutting ceremony, a short but stocky woman with shoulder-length, unnaturally red hair in focus, holding a pair of oversized scissors poised to cut a large lavender ribbon strung up in front of the shop's entrance. Flanking her, his hands on her shoulders supportively, was Rus, still with his hair as long as when Cassandra had known him before. Immediately beside him, head and shoulders peaking out from under his arm, with the bright, carefree smile of a well-loved child plastered on her face, was a girl who seemed of pre-teen age–not quite a child, but neither a young woman yet.

Nothing in the shop felt particularly Rus-tic beyond the cleanliness of the space. There were no smudges on the glass of the refrigerator units, no stray fallen leaves or petals on the floor, no messy stacks of paper behind the register. Without the charm of its trinkets and twine, the place might have felt a little too sterile—like Rus was trying just a bit too hard to keep everything in its place.



Rus, in a pair of darkly washed blue jeans and a black polo with the shop's logo on the breast- “Bayou Bouquets”, the logo two capital B’s, the first reversed, a single rose in the center between them, resembling a butterfly with the B’s as its wings- emerged from the back with a smile, stopping just as he entered, pausing a moment to take in her appearance before speaking. The grin he wore bit heavily into his cheeks, lending him that ‘boyish’ look that betrayed his middle age, lighting up the rest of his features in kind.

Even ‘dressed down’, she was, as ever, stunning. Effortless. Timeless.

“Miss Henry…” To his great credit, his voice didn’t crack, though truth told, he’d been somewhat nervous to break the silence. He gnawed at his bottom lip as he tucked his hands into his pockets, face turning down bashfully, peering back up at her from beneath his brow. “You look... good. How’ve you been?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“February baby, hm?” Meant as a polite conversation carrier - and to mask her surprise at how affordable the crystal was. Maybe she was wrong about the place being way too expensive for her. Or maybe they were actually fair - and maybe that meant they weren’t actually making any sort of profit. Not like the many small Cassandras reflected back in the points of the amethyst had the answer any more than the big Cassandra holding it.


“That’s super cute,” she added, with a slight nod to the dressings, “But it’d be just for me. To go on the bookshelf. It’s pretty,” she felt herself fumbling for words. I don’t need to justify my purchase - just buy the damn thing and leave oh my god sales people like this are my kryptonite.

“Oh, uh, that’s not necessary, if he’s busy, it’s honestly no big - anddddd she’s gone,” Cassandra sighed, the gesture enough to make her shoulders comically sag. What was it about Southern old ladies that they somehow intrinsically knew everything, made all of the assumptions, were never wrong, and were usually so damn polite about the whole affair that you couldn’t help but to feel a bit babied? She should be annoyed on so many levels - the presumptuousness of it all - but goddamn it.

Well, she had two choices - she could put the amethyst down and pull the world’s fastest disappearing act, or she could woman up and pull up her big girl panties and actually face Rus. Maybe he deserved that much?

But what would be best for her?

If I stay, I can say that I actually handled this more like an adult instead of being so avoidant. If I leave, I can say an attempt was made - but then I’d be making more excuses.

The compromise she decided on was to keep her back turned squarely to the register, facing the closed door and the pale glare of the sunlight outside. It was going to be on the warmer side today, but not to the pavement wavering heat of the summer. Standing still for so long though was enough to give her a chill, and she was thankful that she still had the flannel around her waist. She was in the midst of undoing the knot at her waist when she heard his voice. Slipping on the flannel gave her an additional nonchalance as she turned to face him, working her arms through the big sleeves.

“…That’s awfully formal,” the words were glued to the roof of her mouth, peanut butter. She wished she could’ve said something snappier, wittier, but that peanut butter keeping her tongue stuck suddenly dried, turned into a mouthful of sand as her jaw dropped, just a bit, as she took him all the way in.

Holy fuck.

It was just a polo and jeans. Generic uniform 101. If he was in khakis, he could’ve walked out of any office supply store. Okay, so maybe she should give herself credit for actually using words instead of the guttural sounds that raged through her mind now. That was…new.

So, maybe no cartoonish howling, but awkward silence wasn’t too much better. As nonchalantly as possible, she passed a baggy sleeve over her mouth, acting like she was swiping at a bit of stray hair, something, instead of the “I’m trying to make sure that I didn’t actually slobber at the sight of you because you literally look like something I want to take a bite out of” that it actually was.

I wouldn’t even need a running start to jump on him.

Okay, see, it was not actually thinking but hormones or whatever else that you wanna call it - human impulse, I guess - raw propagation of the species, holy hell, Rus, you turn me into a fucking science project - that got you here to begin with. You are going to be slow and nuanced about this.

“Eeerrrrrmmmm,” Not really a word, but not feral enough to be just a sound. Wait - he’d asked her something. “Fine, fine I guess, I mean, more therapy, but you know, generally attempting to be a functional adult. Was out running errands and wanted to bring something for you. I hope you like it,” she gestured, aimlessly, to the wrapped box on the counter. “Bigger than a breadbox, smaller than a microwave, amiright?”

Wait, wasn’t she supposed to be doing something - oh, yeah, making sure that she actually had her flannel on instead of how it currently was: one arm on, the other dragging on the floor. Hunching down a bit, she picked up up and shifted to shuffle it back on. Now that it was all of the way on, it was clear that she swam in the thing; the cuffs easily shadowed her hands and the shirt tails fell to her knees. The girl definitely had a thing for clothes she could swim in.

“You don’t have to open it now, but it’d be kinda cool if you did? It’d be purely for my own selfish reasons, though, cause, I mean, the gift giver always wants to see the look on the receiver’s face-”

Like that one shoot I was riding you and had my hand covering your mouth so I could only see that sheer pleading in your eyes and oh my god we are not going down this path -

“But also it’s the middle of a work day, so I don’t want to get in the way of anything. Just lemme…buy this amethyst because I’d feel weird coming in and not buying anything, and yes, you will charge me how much it’s worth - the lady said it was $14, so I expect to pay that and tax.”

She didn’t make a move towards the register for one simple reason - he was standing there, halfway between the back and the middle of the store, and she wasn’t sure if she could trust herself to walk past him. Not yet, anyway. It would be easier to back up - if not straight up bolt - towards the door than more towards him.

How could a man have this much of an effect on her? That sheer pulling of primality from the core of her, stirred higher, hotter, since their “brief” encounter weeks back. History couldn’t repeat itself, otherwise she’d be caught perpetually jumping him, freaking out over the intimacy, then back to the start, until the high wore off or it just became unsustainable. A nightmarish situation and neither one of them deserved that. If they could at least keep it in public, maybe that would help tamper down the wild raging hormones that kept shorting out her brain.